BROWN 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


SUtce  3Stotom* 


ROSE    MACLEOD.      With  frontispiece.   Crown 

8vo,  $1.50. 

THE  COUNTY  ROAD.     i2mo,  $1.50. 
THE  COURT  OF  LOVE.     12010,  $1.25. 
PARADISE.     i2mo,  £1.50. 
HIGH  NOON.     i2mo,  $1.50. 
THE  MANNERINGS.     Crown  8vo,  #1.50. 
MARGARET  WARRENER.     12010,  £1.50. 
KING'S   END.     12010,  $1.50. 
MEADOW  GRASS.   Tales  of  New  England  Life. 

i6mo,  $1.50;  paper,  50  cents. 
TIVERTON  TALES.     12010,  $1.50. 
BY  OAK  AND  THORN.     A  Record  of  English 

Days.     16010,  $1.25. 
THE  DAY  OF  HIS  YOUTH.     16010,  £1.00. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


ROSE  MACLEOD 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

BY  ALICE  BROWN 


WITH    A    FRONTISPIECE 
BY  W.  W.  CHURCHILL,  JR. 


BOSTON   AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON     MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

1908 


COPYRIGHT    1907   AND    1908   BY   ALICE   BROWN 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  April  iqoS 


FIFTH    IMPRESSION 


ROSE  MACLEOD 


228607 


BOSE  MACLEOD 


MADAM  FULTON  and  her  granddaughter 
Electra  were  sitting  at  the  breakfast- table.  It 
was  a  warm  yet  inspiriting  day  in  early  spring,  and,  if 
the  feel  and  look  of  it  were  not  enough,  the  garden 
under  the  dining-room  windows  told  the  season's  hour 
like  a  floral  clock.  The  earliest  blossoms  had  been 
pushed  onward  by  the  mounting  spirit  of  the  year,  and 
now  the  firstlings  of  May  were  budding.  The  great 
Georgian  house,  set  in  the  heart  of  this  processional 
bloom,  showed  the  mellow  tints  of  time.  It  had  an 
abundant  acreage,  diversified,  at  first  hand,  not  only 
by  this  terraced  garden  in  the  rear,  but  by  another  gone 
to  wild  abandon  on  the  west,  and  an  orchard  stretching 
away  into  level  fields  and,  beyond  them,  groves  of  pine. 

These  dining-room  windows,  three  of  them,  side  by 
side,  and  now  unshaded,  gave  large  outlook  on  a  beauti 
ful  and  busy  world  where  the  terrace  mounted  in  green, 
to  be  painted  later  with  red  peony  balls,  and  where  the 
eye,  still  traveling,  rested  in  satisfaction  on  the  fringe 
of  locusts  at  the  top. 

Inside  the  house  the  sense  of  beauty  could  be  fully 
fed.  Here  was  a  sweet  consistency,  the  sacred  past  in 
untouched  being,  that  time  when  furniture  was  made  in 
England,  and  china  was  the  product  of  long  voyages 
and  solemn  hoarding  in  corner  cabinets  with  diamond 

1 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

panes.  Life  here  was  reflected  dimly  from  polished  sur 
faces  and  serenely  accentuated  by  quaint  carvings  and 
spindle  legs.  Here  was  "atmosphere" — the  theatre 
of  simple  and  austere  content. 

Madam  Fulton  outwardly  fitted  her  background  as 
a  shepherdess  fits  a  fan.  She  was  a  sprite  of  an  old  lady, 
slender  and  round,  and  finished  in  every  movement, 
with  the  precision  of  those  who  have  "learned  the 
steps"  in  dancing  of  another  period.  It  was  her  joy 
that  she  had  kept  her  figure,  her  commonplace  that, 
having  it,  she  knew  what  to  do  with  it.  She  had  a 
piquant  profile,  dark  eyes,  and  curls  whiter  than  white, 
sifted  over  with  the  lustre  of  a  living  silver.  According 
to  her  custom,  she  wore  light  gray,  and  there  was  lace 
about  her  wrists  and  throat. 

"Coffee,  Electra?"  she  suddenly  proposed,  in  a  con 
tralto  voice  that  still  had  warmth  in  it.  She  put  the 
question  impatiently,  as  if  her  hidden  self  and  that  of 
the  girl  opposite  had  been  too  long  communing,  in  spite 
of  them,  and  she  had  to  break  the  tacit  bondage  of  that 
intercourse  by  one  more  obvious.  The  girl  looked  up 
from  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

"No,  thank  you,  grandmother,"  she  said.  Her  voice, 
even  in  its  lowest  notes,  had  a  clear,  full  resonance. 
Then  she  laid  the  letter  down.  "I  beg  your  pardon," 
she  added.  "I  thought  you  were  opening  your  mail." 

"No!  no!"  Madam  Fulton  cried,  in  a  new  impa 
tience.  "Goon.  Read  your  letter.  Don't  mind  me." 

But  the  girl  was  pushing  it  aside.  She  looked  across 
the  table  with  her  direct  glance,  and  Madam  Fulton 
thought  unwillingly  how  handsome  she  was.  Electra 

2 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

was  young,  and  she  lacked  but  one  thing:  a  girl's  un 
certain  grace.  She  had  all  the  freshness  of  youth  with 
the  poise  of  ripest  womanhood.  She  sat  straight  and 
well,  and  seemed  to  manage  her  position  at  table  as  if 
it  were  a  horse.  Her  profile  was  slightly  aquiline  and 
her  complexion  faultless  in  its  fairness  and  its  testi 
mony  to  wholesome  living.  Her  lips  were  rather  thin, 
but  the  line  of  white  teeth  behind  them  showed  exqui 
sitely.  She  had  a  great  deal  of  fine  brown  hair  wound 
about  her  head  in  braids,  in  an  imperial  fashion.  Per 
haps  the  only  fault  in  her  face  was  that  her  eyes  were 
of  a  light  and  not  sympathetic  blue. 

"Shall  I  open  your  mail,  grandmother?"  she  asked 
with  extreme  deference. 

Madam  Fulton's  hand  was  lying  on  a  disordered 
pile  of  letters,  twenty  deep,  beside  her  plate.  She 
pressed  the  hand  a  little  closer. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  will  attend  to  them 
myself." 

Electra  laid  down  her  napkin,  and  pushed  her  plate 
to  one  side,  to  give  space  for  her  own  papers.  She 
lifted  one  sheet,  and  holding  it  in  her  fine  hands,  began 
rather  elegantly,  — 

"Grandmother,  I  have  here  a  most  interesting  letter 
from  Mrs.  Furnivall  Williams.  She  speaks  of  your  book 
in  the  highest  praise." 

"Oh!"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  shade  of  satire, 
"does  she?  That's  very  good-natured  of  Fanny  Wil 
liams." 

"Let  me  read  you  what  she  says."  Electra  bent  a 
frowning  brow  upon  the  page.  "Ah,  this  is  it.  'It  was 

3 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

to  be  expected  that  your  grandmother  would  write  what 
we  all  wanted  to  read.  But  her  " Recollections"  are 
more  than  welcome.  They  are  satisfying.  They  are 
illuminative.'" 

"Fanny  Williams  is  a  fool!" 

Electra,  not  glancing  up,  yet  managed  to  look  deeply 
pained. 

"She  goes  on  to  say,  'What  a  power  your  dear  grand 
mother  has  been!  I  never  realized  it  until  now."' 

"That's  a  nasty  thing  for  Fanny  Williams  to  write. 
You  tell  her  so." 

"Then  she  asks  whether  you  would  be  willing  to 
meet  the  Delta  Club  for  an  afternoon  of  it." 

"Of  what?" 

"Your  book,  grandmother,  — your  'Recollections.'" 

"Electra,  you  drive  me  to  drink.  I  have  written  the 
book.  I've  printed  it.  I've  done  with  it.  What  does 
Fanny  Williams  want  me  to  do  now  ?  Prance  ?  " 

Electra  was  looking  at  her  grandmother  at  last  and 
in  a  patient  hopefulness,  like  one  awaiting  a  better 
mood. 

"Grandmother  dear,"  she  protested,  "it  almost  seems 
as  if  you  owe  it  to  the  world,  having  said  so  much,  to 
say  a  little  more." 

"What,  for  instance,  Electra?  What?" 

Electra  considered,  one  hand  smoothing  out  the  page. 

"People  want  to  know  things  about  it.  The  news 
papers  do.  How  can  you  think  for  a  moment  of  the 
discussion  there  has  been,  and  not  expect  questions?" 

The  old  lady  smiled  to  herself. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "they  won't  find  out." 
4 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"But  why,  grandmother,  why?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  why,  Electra;  but  they  won't,  and 
there's  an  end  of  it."  She  rose  from  her  chair,  and 
Electra,  gathering  her  mail,  followed  punctiliously. 
As  they  were  leaving  the  room,  her  grandmother  turned 
upon  her.  "  Did  you  hear  from  Peter  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes.  From  New  York.  He  will  be  here  to-morrow." 
Electra's  clear,  well-considered  look  was  very  unlike 
that  of  a  girl  whose  lover  had  come  home,  after  a  five 
years'  absence,  for  the  avowed  purpose  of  marriage. 

Madam  Fulton  regarded  her  for  a  moment  with  a 
softened  glance.  It  seemed  wistfully  to  include  other 
dreams,  other  hopes  than  the  girl's  own,  a  little  dancing 
circle  of  shadowy  memories  outside  the  actual,  as  might 
well  happen  when  one  has  lived  many  years  and  seen 
the  growth  and  passing  of  such  ties. 

"Well,  Electra,"  she  said  then,  "I  suppose  you'll 
marry  him.  You'll  be  famous  by  brevet.  That's  what 
you'll  like." 

Electra  laughed  a  little,  in  a  tolerant  way. 

"You  are  always  thinking  I  want  to  become  a  celeb 
rity,  grandmother,"  she  said.  "That's  very  funny  of 
you." 

"Think!"  emphasized  the  old  lady.  "I  know  it.  I 
know  your  kind.  They're  thick  as  spatter  now.  Every 
body  wants  to  do  something,  or  say  he's  done  it.  You 
want  to  'express'  yourselves.  That's  what  you  say  — 
'express'  yourselves.  I  never  saw  such  a  race." 

She  went  grumbling  into  the  library  to  answer  her 
letters,  or  at  least  look  them  through,  and  paused  there 
for  a  moment,  her  hand  on  the  table.  She  knew  ap- 

5 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

proximately  what  was  in  the  letters.  They  were  all 
undoubtedly  about  her  book,  the  "Recollections"  of 
her  life,  some  of  them  questioning  her  view  of  the  public 
events  therein  narrated,  but  others  palpitating  with  an 
eager  interest.  She  had  written  that  history  as  a  woman 
of  letters  in  a  small  way,  and  a  woman  who  had  known 
the  local  celebrities,  and  she  had  done  it  so  vividly,  with 
such  incredible  originality,  that  the  book  was  not  only 
having  a  rapid  sale,  but  it  piqued  the  curiosity  of  gossip- 
lovers  and  even  local  historians.  No  names  were  men 
tioned;  but  when  she  wrote,  "A  poet  said  to  me  in  Cam 
bridge  one  day,"  everybody  knew  what  poet  was  meant. 
When  she  obscurely  alluded  to  the  letters  preceding 
some  smooth  running  of  the  underground  railway, 
historians  of  the  war  itched  to  see  the  letters,  and  in 
vited  her  to  produce  them.  The  book  was  three  months 
old  now,  and  the  wonder  no  less.  The  letters  had  been 
coming,  and  the  old  lady  had  not  been  answering  them. 
At  first  she  read  them  with  glee,  as  a  later  chapter  of 
her  life  story;  but  now  they  tired  her  a  little,  because 
she  anticipated  their  appeal. 

A  bird  was  singing  outside.  She  cocked  her  head 
a  little  and  listened,  not  wholly  in  pleasure,  but  with  a 
critical  curiosity  as  well.  She  was  always  watching  for 
the  diminution  of  sound,  the  veiling  of  sight  because 
she  was  old,  and  now  she  wondered  whether  the  round 
golden  notes  were  what  they  had  been  fifty  years  ago. 
She  stood  a  moment  thoughtfully,  her  hand  now  on  the 
letters,  —  those  tedious  intruders  upon  her  leisure. 
Then,  with  an  air  of  guilty  escape,  though  there  was 
no  one  to  see  and  judge,  she  left  them  lying  there  and 

6 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

stole  softly  out  on  the  veranda,  where  she  sank  into  her 
friendly  wicker  chair,  and  looking  upon  the  world, 
smilingly  felt  it  to  be  good.  The  sky  was  very  bright, 
yet  not  too  bright  for  pleasure;  clouds  not  meant  for 
rain  were  blotting  it  in  feathery  spaces.  There  was  a 
sweet  air  stirring,  and  the  birds,  though  they  were  busy, 
said  something  about  it  from  time  to  time  in  a  satis 
factory  way.  Madam  Fulton  felt  the  rhythm  and  surge 
of  it  all,  and  acquiesced  in  her  own  inactive  part  in  it. 
Sometimes  of  late  she  hardly  knew  how  much  of  life 
was  memory  and  how  much  the  present  brilliant  call 
of  things.  It  was  life,  the  thing  she  did  not  understand. 
Presently  she  closed  her  eyes  and  sank,  she  thought, 
into  a  deeper  reverie.  These  excursions  of  hers  were 
less  like  sleep,  she  always  told  herself,  than  a  kind  of 
musing  dream.  At  last  she  was  learning  what  other 
old  people  had  meant  when  they  explained,  with  a 
shamefaced  air  of  knowing  youth  could  never  under 
stand,  "I  just  lost  myself."  To  lose  one's  battered  and 
yet  still  insistent  self  was  now  to  be  at  peace. 

When  the  forenoon  was  an  hour  or  more  along,  she 
opened  her  eyes,  aware  of  some  one  looking  at  her. 
There  he  was,  an  old  gentleman  of  a  pleasant  aspect, 
heavy,  with  a  thickness  of  curling  white  hair,  blue  eyes, 
and  that  rosiness  which  is  as  the  bloom  upon  the  flower 
of  good  living.  His  clothes  were  of  the  right  cut,  and 
he  wore  them  with  the  ease  of  a  man  who  has  always 
had  the  best  to  eat,  to  wear,  to  look  at;  for  whom  life 
has  been  a  well-organized  scheme  to  turn  out  comfort. 
The  old  lady  stared  at  him  with  unwinking  eyes,  and 
the  old  gentleman  smiled  at  her. 

7 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

" Billy!"  she  cried  at  last,  and  gave  him  both  her 
hands.  "Billy  Stark!" 

They  shook  hands  warmly  and  still  looked  each 
other  in  the  eye.  They  had  not  met  for  years,  and  neither 
liked  to  think  what  was  in  the  other's  mind.  But  Madam 
Fulton,  after  they  had  sat  down,  challenged  it. 

"I'm  an  old  woman,  Billy."  She  wrinkled  up  her 
eyes  in  a  delightful  way  she  had.  "Don't  you  think 
that's  funny?" 

Billy  with  difficulty  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other, 
helping  it  with  a  plump  hand. 

"You're  precisely  what  you  always  were." 

His  round,  comfortable  voice  at  once  put  her  where 
she  liked  to  be,  in  the  field  of  an  unconsidered  inter 
course  with  man.  Electra,  she  knew,  was  too  much 
with  her,  but  she  had  forgotten  how  invigorating  these 
brisk  yet  kindly  breezes  were,  from  the  other  planets. 
"That's  what  I  came  over  to  see  about,"  Billy  was 
saying,  with  a  rakish  eye.  "I  need  n't  have  taken 
the  trouble.  You're  as  little  changed  as  that  syringa 
bush." 

Her  brilliant  face  softened  into  something  wistful. 

"The  bush  will  come  into  bloom  in  a  few  weeks, 
Billy,"  she  reminded  him.  "I  shan't  ever  bloom  again." 

"Boo  to  a  goose!"  said  Billy.  "You're  in  bloom 
now." 

The  wistfulness  was  gone.  She  adjusted  her  glasses 
on  her  nose  and  eyed  him  sharply. 

"I  think  too  much  about  old  age,"  she  said.  "I 
regard  mine  as  a  kind  of  mildew,  and  every  day  and 
forty  times  a  day  I  peer  at  myself  to  see  if  the  mil- 

8 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

dew  's  growing  thicker.  But  you  don't  seem  to  have 
any  mildew,  Billy.  You  're  just  a  different  kind  of  per 
son  from  what  you  were  fifty  years  ago.  You  have  n't 
gone  bad  at  all." 

Billy  set  his  correct  feet  together  on  the  floor,  rose, 
and,  with  his  hand  on  his  heart,  made  her  a  bow. 

"I  don't  care  for  it  much  myself,"  he  said. 

"  Growing  old  ?  It 's  the  devil,  Billy.  Don't  talk  about 
it.  Why  are  n't  you  in  England?" 

"I'm  junior  partner  now." 

"I  know  it." 

"I'm  a  great  publisher,  Florrie." 

She  nodded. 

"Your  men  run  over  to  arrange  with  us  in  London. 
There  was  no  occasion  for  my  coming  here.  But  I 
simply  wanted  to.  I  got  a  little  curious  —  homesick, 
maybe.  So  I  came.  Got  in  last  night.  I  read  your  book 
before  I  sailed." 

She  looked  at  him  quizzically  and  almost,  it  might 
be  said,  with  a  droll  uneasiness. 

"You  brought  it  out  in  England,"  she  offered,  in 
rather  a  small  voice.  "Naturally  you'd  read  it." 

"Not  because  we  brought  it  out.  Because  it  was 
yours,"  he  corrected  her.  "My  word,  Florrie,  what  a 
life  you've  had  of  it." 

The  pink  crept  into  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes  menaced 
him. 

"Are  you  trying  to  pump  me,  Billy  Stark?"  she 
inquired. 

"Not  for  a  moment.  But  you're  guilty,  Florrie. 
What  is  it?" 

9 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

She  considered,  her  gaze  bent  on  her  lap. 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  Billy,"  she  temporized,  "I've  got 
in  pretty  deep  with  that  book.  I  wrote  it  as  a  sort  of  a  — 
well,  I  wrote  it,  you  know,  and  I  thought  I  might  get 
a  few  hundred  dollars  out  of  it,  same  as  I  have  out  of 
those  novels  I  used  to  write  to  keep  lace  on  my  petti 
coats.  Well!  the  public  has  made  a  fool  of  itself  over 
the  book.  Every  day  I  get  piles  of  letters  asking  what  I 
meant  by  this  and  that,  and  won't  I  give  my  docu 
mentary  evidence  for  saying  this  or  that  great  gun  did 
so  and  so  at  such  a  time." 

"Well,  why  don't  you?" 

"Give  my  evidence?  Why,  I  can't!"  She  was  half 
whimpering,  with  a  laugh  on  her  old  face.  "I  have  n't 
got  it." 

"You  mean  you  haven't  the  actual  letters  now. 
Those  extraordinary  ones  of  the  abolitionist  group,  for 
example,  —  can't  you  produce  them  ?  " 

"Why  no,  Billy,  of  course  I  can't.  I"  — she  held  his 
glance  with  a  mixture  of  deprecation  and  a  gay  delight 
—  "I  made  them  up." 

William  Stark,  the  publisher,  looked  at  her  with 
round  blue  eyes  growing  rounder  and  a  deeper  red 
surging  into  his  sea-tanned  face.  He  seemed  on  the 
point  of  bursting  into  an  explosion,  whether  of  horror 
or  mirth  Madam  Fulton  could  not  tell.  She  continued 
to  gaze  at  him  in  the  same  mingling  of  deprecating  and 
amused  inquiry.  In  spite  of  her  years  she  looked  like 
a  little  animal  which,  having  done  wrong,  seeks  out 
means  of  propitiation,  and  as  yet  knows  nothing  better 
than  the  lifted  eyebrow  of  inquiry. 

10 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Well,"  she  said  again  defiantly,  "I  made  them  up." 

"In  God's  name,  Florrie,  what  for?" 

"I  wanted  to." 

"To  pad  out  your  book?" 

"To  make  a  nice  book,  the  kind  of  one  I  wanted. 
I'll  tell  you  what,  Billy," — she  bowled  caution  into 
the  farthest  distance,  — "I'm  going  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  Now  you  won't  peach?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Go  on,"  he  bade  her. 

She  lifted  her  head,  sat  straighter  in  her  chair,  and 
spoke  with  firmness :  — 

"Now,  Billy,  if  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you  at  all,  you 
must  know  precisely  where  I  stand.  Maybe  you  do, 
but  I  don't  believe  it.  You  see,  all  these  years  I  've  been 
writing  what  I  called  novels,  and  they've  paid  me  a 
little,  and  I  've  got  up  a  sort  of  local  fame.  I  'm  as  poor 
—  well,  I  can't  tell  you  how  poor.  Only  I  live  here  in 
the  summer  with  Electra  in  her  house  —  " 

"It's  the  old  Fulton  house." 

"Yes,  but  it  came  to  her  through  her  father.  Remem 
ber,  I  was  a  second  wife.  I  had  no  children.  My  hus 
band  gave  me  the  Cambridge  place  and  left  this  to  his 
son." 

"What  became  of  the  Cambridge  house?" 

"Sold,  years  ago.  Eaten  up.  Seems  as  if  I'd  done 
nothing,  all  these  years,  but  eat.  It  makes  me  sick  to 
think  of  it.  Well,  here  was  I,  credit  low,  my  little  knack 
at  writing  all  but  gone  —  why,  Billy,  styles  have  changed 
since  my  day.  Folks  would  hoot  at  my  novels  now. 
They  don't  read  them.  They  just  remember  I  wrote 

11 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

them  when  they  want  a  celebrity  at  a  tea.   I'm  a  back 
number.    Don't  you  know  it?" 

He  nodded,  gravely  pondering.  The  one  thing  about 
him  never  to  be  affected  by  his  whimsical  humor  was  the 
integrity  of  a  business  verdict.  Madam  Fulton  now  was 
warming  to  the  value  of  her  own  position.  She  began 
to  see  how  picturesque  it  was. 

"Well,  then  up  rises  one  of  your  precious  publishers 
and  says  to  me,  'Mrs.  Fulton,  you  have  known  all  the 
celebrated  people.  Why  not  write  your  recollections?' 
'Why  not?'  says  I.  Well,  I  went  home  and  sat  down 
and  wrote.  And  when  I  looked  back  at  my  life,  I  found 
it  dull.  So  I  gave  myself  a  free  hand.  I  described  the 
miserable  thing  as  it  ought  to  have  been,  riot  as  it 
was." 

William  Stark  was  leaning  forward,  looking  her  in 
the  face,  his  hands  on  his  knees,  as  if  to  steady  him 
through  an  amazing  crisis. 

"Florrie,"  he  began,  "do  you  mean  to  say  you  made 
up  most  of  the  letters  in  that  book  ? " 

"Most  of  them?  Every  one!  I  hadn't  any  letters 
from  celebrities.  Days  when  I  might  have  had,  I  did  n't 
care  a  button  about  the  eggs  they  were  cackling  over, 
and  I  did  n't  know  they  were  going  to  be  celebrities, 
then,  did  I?" 

"Do  you  mean  the  recollections  of  Brook  Farm, 
taken  down  from  the  lips  of  the  old  poet  as  he  had  it 
from  a  member  of  the  fraternity  there  —  " 

"Faked,  dear  boy,  faked,  every  one  of  them."  She 
was  gathering  cheerfulness  by  the  way. 

"The  story  of  Hawthorne  and  the  first  edition  —  " 
12 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Hypothetical.    Grouse  in  the  gun-room." 

"Do  you  mean  that  the  story  of  the  old  slave  who 
came  to  your  mother's  door  in  Waltham,  and  the  three 
abolitionists  on  their  way  to  the  meeting  —  " 

"Now  what's  the  use,  Billy  Stark?"  cried  the  old 
lady.  "I  told  you  it  was  a  fake  from  beginning  to  end. 
So  it  is.  So  is  every  page  of  it.  If  I'd  written  my  recol 
lections  as  they  were,  the  book  would  have  been  a  pam 
phlet  of  twenty  odd  pages.  It  would  have  said  I  married 
a  learned  professor  because  I  thought  if  I  got  into  Cam 
bridge  society  I  should  see  life,  and  life  was  what  I 
wanted.  It  would  have  gone  on  to  say  I  found  it  death 
and  nothing  else,  and  when  my  husband  died  I  spent 
all  the  money  I  could  get  trying  to  see  life  and  I  never 
saw  it  then.  Who'd  have  printed  that  ?  Pretty  recollec 
tions,  I  should  say!" 

Mr.  Stark  was  still  musing,  his  eyes  interrogating  her. 

"It's  really  incredible,  Florrie,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Poor  dear!  you  needed  the  money." 

"That  wasn't  it." 

"Then  what  was?" 

"I  don't  know."  But  immediately  her  face  folded 
up  into  its  smiling  creases  and  she  said,  "I  wanted  some 
fun." 

William  Stark  fell  back  in  his  chair  and  began  to 
laugh,  round  upon  wheezy  round.  When  his  glasses 
had  fallen  off  and  his  cheeks  were  wet  and  his  face 
flamed  painfully,  Madam  Fulton  spoke,  without  a 
gleam. 

"You're  a  nice  man,  Billy  Stark." 

"You  wanted  your  little  joke!"  he  repeated,  subsiding 
13 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

and  trumpeting  into  his  handkerchief.    "Well,  you've 
had  it,  Florrie;  you've  had  it." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  have,"  she  returned.  "I  had 
to  enjoy  it  alone,  and  that  kind  of  palled  on  me.  When 
the  first  notices  came,  I  used  to  lie  awake  from  three 
o'clock  on,  to  laugh.  I  used  to  go  to  the  window  when 
Electra  was  in  the  room,  and  make  up  faces,  to  let  off 
steam  and  keep  her  from  knowing.  Then  the  letters 
kept  coming,  and  clubs  and  things  kept  hounding  me, 
and  Electra  was  always  at  me.  There  she  is  now,  with 
mv  gr°g-  See  me  take  it  and  pour  it  into  the  syringa." 


II 

•  ilLECTRA  was  crossing  the  veranda  with  her 
I  J  springing  step,  bearing  a  glass  of  beaten  egg  and 
milk  on  a  little  tray.  Madam  Fulton  signed  to  her  to 
place  the  tray  on  a  table,  evidently  ready  for  such  min 
istrations,  and  then  presented  her  friend.  Electra 
greeted  him  with  a  smile  of  bright  acceptance.  She 
knew  his  standing,  and  his  air  of  worldly  ease  quite 
satisfied  her. 

"May  I  bring  you  — ?  "  she  began,  with  a  pretty  grace. 

"I  should  like  a  glass  of  water,"  said  Billy,  "if  you 
will  be  so  good." 

When  she  had  gone,  Madam  Fulton  spoke  in  impres 
sive  haste :  — 

"  How  long  can  you  stay,  Billy  ?  All  day  ?  All  night  ?  " 

"I've  got  to  run  back  to  New  York  for  a  bit,  but  I 
shall  be  in  America  all  summer,  one  place  or  another. 
I'll  stay  to  luncheon,  if  you'll  let  me." 

"We  must  avoid  Electra!  If  she  comes  back  and 
settles  on  us,  I  shall  simply  take  you  to  walk.  We  can 
go  over  to  Bessie  Grant's.  You  remember  her.  She 
married  the  doctor." 

"I  remember." 

Electra  had  returned  with  a  glass  and  pitcher,  and 
ice  clinking  pleasantly.  She  took  occasion  to  explain  to 
Madam  Fulton,  with  some  civil  hesitation,  — 

"I  have  a  committee  meeting,  grandmother.  I  had 
planned  to  go  in  town." 

15 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

The  old  lady  responded  briskly. 

"Go,  my  dear,  go.  Mr.  Stark  will  stay  to  luncheon. 
We'll  look  out  for  each  other." 

When  Electra  had  rustled  away,  after  the  pleasantest 
of  farewell  recognitions  between  her  and  the  guest, 
Madam  Fulton  heaved  a  sigh. 

"Billy,"  said  she,  "that's  a  dreadful  girl." 

"She's  a  very  handsome  girl.  What's  the  matter 
with  her?" 

"She's  so  equipped.  First,  she's  well  born.  Her 
grandmother  was  a  Grace  and  her  mother  was  a  Vander- 
decken.  See  her  teeth.  See  her  hair,  and  her  profile. 
Dreadful!" 

"They're  very  beautiful,  in  a  correct  way.  She's  as 
well  made  as  a  grand  piano." 

"That's  it,  Billy.  And  she  has  done  nothing  but 
polish  herself,  and  now  you  can  see  your  face  in  her. 
Fancy,  Billy,  what  these  modern  creatures  do.  They 
go  to  gymnasium.  They  can  take  a  five-barred  gate, 
I  believe,  in  their  knickerbockers  and  what  they  call 
sneakers.  They  understand  all  about  foods  and  what 's 
good  for  them  and  what's  good  for  the  aged,  and  if 
you  're  over  seventy  they  buy  condensed  foods  in  cans 
and  make  you  take  it  twice  a  day." 

"You  have  n't  tasted  your  grog." 

"I  shan't.   Want  it?" 

He  accepted  the  glass,  and  sniffed  at  it  critically. 

"That's  good,"  he  commented.  "That's  very  good. 
There's  a  familiar  creature  in  that."  He  tasted,  and 
then  drank  with  gusto. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  lady  disparagingly,  "you 
16 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

would  n't  have  said  so  if  it  had  been  one  of  the  foods. 
I  have  them  before  I  go  to  bed." 

He  spoke  persuasively:  "Florrie,  let's  talk  a  little 
more  about  the  book." 

"There's  nothing  more  to  say.  I've  told  you  the 
whole  story,  and  I  know  you  won't  tell  anybody  else." 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it  to  Gilbert  and  Wall?" 

"What  for?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  exactly:  only  it  seems  to  me 
publishers  and  authors  are  in  a  more  or  less  confiden 
tial  relation.  Being  a  publisher  myself,  I  naturally  feel 
rather  strongly  about  it." 

"I  don't  see  it  in  the  least,"  said  the  old  lady  de 
cisively.  "All  this  talk  about  the  paternal  relation  is 
mere  poppycock.  They  print  me  a  book.  If  it  takes  a 
start,  they  back  it.  They're  as  glad  as  I  am.  But  as 
to  telling  them  my  glorious  little  joke,  why,  I  can't  and 
I  won't." 

"But,  dear  woman,  they're  printing  away  with  full 
confidence  in  having  got  a  valuable  book  out  of  you." 

"So  they  have.   It 's  selling,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"Madly.  Specialists  want  it  for  honest  data.  The 
general  reader  has  got  an  idea  from  the  reviews  that 
there's  personal  gossip  in  it,  more  or  less  racy.  So  it 
goes." 

"Well,  let  it  go,"  said  the  old  lady  recklessly.  "I 
shan't  stop  it." 

"No,  but  I  can't  help  thinking  Gilbert  and  Wall 
ought  to  be  in  the  secret." 

"Do  you  imagine  they'd  stop  printing?" 
17 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  don't  imagine  anything.  I  believe,  to  speak  tem 
perately,  they'd  drop  dead.  I  only  say  it's  a  fearful 
and  wonderful  situation,  and  they  ought  to  know  it. 
You  see,  dear  woman,  you've  not  only  played  a  joke 
on  the  public;  you've  played  a  joke  on  them." 

"Well,  for  goodness'  sake,  why  not?  What's  a  pub 
lisher,  anyway  ?  Has  he  got  to  be  treated  like  a  Hindu 
god  ?  Billy  Stark,  I  wish  you  'd  stayed  in  London  where 
you  belong." 

Again  Billy  felt  himself  wheezing,  and  gave  up  to  it 
as  before.  She  watched  him  unwinkingly,  and  by  and 
by  she  chuckled  a  little  and  then  joined  him,  in  an 
ecstasy. 

"Florrie,"  said  he,  "you're  simply  a  glorious  por 
tent,  and  you  've  no  more  moral  sense  than  the  cat." 

"No,  Billy,  no!"  She  was  answering  in  a  happy 
acquiescence.  "I  never  had  any.  I've  always  wanted 
some  fun,  and  I  want  it  to  this  day."  Her  old  face 
changed  surprisingly  under  a  shade  of  gravity.  "And 
see  where  it 's  led  me."  It  was  natural  to  conclude  that 
her  verdict  embraced  wider  evidence  than  that  of  the 
erring  book.  Billy,  quite  serious  in  his  turn,  looked  at 
her  in  candid  invitation.  She  answered  him  earnestly 
and  humbly:  "Billy,  I  always  took  the  wrong  road.  I 
took  it  in  the  beginning  and  I  never  got  out  of  it." 

"There's  a  frightful  number  of  wrong  turnings," 
Billy  offered,  in  rather  inadequate  sympathy,  "and  a 
great  deficiency  of  guideposts." 

"You  see,  Billy,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  give  up 
Charlie  Grant  and  marry  Mark  Fulton.  I  was  only  a 
country  girl.  Charlie  was  a  country  boy.  I  thought 

18 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Mark  must  be  a  remarkable  person  because  he  was  a 
professor  in  Cambridge.  I  thought  Charlie  was  going 
to  be  a  poor  little  country  doctor,  because  he  was 
studying  medicine  with  another  country  doctor,  and 
he  could  n't  go  to  college  to  save  his  skin.  There  were 
eight  children,  you  know,  younger  than  he.  He  had  to 
work  on  the  farm.  Well,  Billy,  I  made  a  mistake." 

Stark  marveled  at  the  crude  simplicity  of  all  this. 
He  forgot,  for  the  moment,  that  she  was  an  old  woman, 
and  that  for  a  long  time  she  had  been  conning  over  the 
past  like  a  secret  record,  full  of  blemishes,  perhaps,  but 
not  now  to  be  remedied. 

"You  did  like  Charlie,"  he  ventured.  "I  knew  that." 

"I  liked  him  very  much.  And  I've  never  quite 
escaped  from  his  line  of  life,  if  that 's  what  they  call  it. 
Since  Electra  was  alone  and  I  came  here  to  stay  with 
her,  I  've  been  thrown  with  his  widow.  Bessie 's  an  old 
woman,  too,  you  know,  like  me.  But  she's  a  different 
kind." 

"She  was  a  pretty  girl.  Rather  sedate,  I  remember, 
for  a  girl." 

"Billy,  she's  a  miracle.  She  lives  alone,  all  but  old 
Mary  to  do  the  work.  She's  stiffened  from  rheuma 
tism  so  that  she  sits  in  her  chair  nearly  all  day,  and 
stumps  round  a  little,  in  agony,  with  two  canes.  But 
she 's  had  her  life." 

"How  has  she  had  it,  Florrie  ?  In  having  Grant  ?  " 

"Because  all  her  choices  were  good  choices.  She 
took  him  when  he  was  poor,  and  she  helped  him  work. 
They  had  one  son.  He  married  a  singer,  a  woman  — 
well,  like  me.  Maybe  it  was  in  the  blood  to  want  a 

19 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

woman  like  me.  Then  this  boy  and  the  singer  had  two 
sons  — one  of  them  clever.  Peter  Grant,  you  know. 
I  suppose  he's  a  genius,  if  there  are  such.  The  other 
has  —  a  deformity." 

"I  know,"  he  nodded.    "You  wrote  me." 

"I  didn't  write  you  all.  He  wasn't  born  with  it. 
He  was  a  splendid  boy,  but  when  he  had  the  accident 
the  mother  turned  against  him.  She  could  n't  help  it. 
I  see  how  it  was,  Billy.  The  pride  of  life,  that's  what 
it  is  —  the  pride  of  life." 

"Is  he  dwarfed?" 

"Heavens!  he  was  meant  for  a  giant,  rather.  He 
has  great  strength.  Somehow  he  impresses  you.  But 
it's  the  grandmother  that  built  him  up,  body  and  brain. 
Now  he's  a  man  grown,  and  she's  made  him.  Don't 
you  see,  Billy?  she's  struck  home  every  time." 

"Is  she  religious?" 

"Yes,  she  is.  She  prays."  Her  voice  fell,  with  the 
word.  She  looked  at  him  searchingly,  as  if  he  might 
understand  better  than  she  did  the  potency  of  that 
communion. 

"She's  a  Church  woman,  I  suppose." 

"No,  no.  She  only  believes  things — and  prays. 
She  told  me  one  day  Osmond  —  he 's  the  deformed  one 
—  he  could  n't  have  lived  if  she  had  n't  prayed." 

"That  he  would  be  better?" 

"No,  she  was  quite  explicit  about  that.  Only  that 
they  would  be  taught  how  to  deal  with  it  —  his  trouble. 
To  do  it,  she  said,  as  God  wished  they  should.  Billy,  it's 
marvelous." 

"Well,  dear  child,"  said  Billy,  "you  can  pray,  too." 
20 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Her  old  face  grew  pinched  in  its  denial. 

"No,"  she  answered  sadly,  "no.  It  would  n't  rise 
above  the  ceiling.  What  I  mean  is,  Billy,  that  all  our 
lives  we're  opening  gates  into  different  roads.  Bessie 
Grant  opened  the  right  gate.  She 's  got  into  a  level  field 
and  she 's  at  home  there.  But  I  should  n't  be.  I  only 
go  and  climb  up  and  look  over  the  bars.  And  I  go 
stumbling  along,  hit  or  miss,  and  I  never  get  anywhere." 

He  was  perplexed.   He  frowned  a  little. 

"Where  do  you  want  to  get,  Florrie?"  he  asked  at 
length. 

She  smiled  into  his  face  engagingly. 

"I  don't  know,  Billy.  Only  where  things  don't  bore 
me;  where  they  are  worth  while." 

"But  they  always  get  to  bore  us — "  he  paused  and 
she  took  him  up. 

"You  mean  I'm  bored  because  I  am  an  old  woman. 
I  should  say  so,  too,  but  then  I  look  at  that  other 
woman  and  I  know  it  is  n't  so.  No,  Billy,  I  took  the 
wrong  road." 

Billy  looked  at  her  a  long  time  searchingly. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "what  can  we  do  about  it? 
I  mean,  besides  writing  fake  memoirs  and  then  going 
ag'in  our  best  friends  when  they  beg  us  to  own  up  ?  " 

She  put  the  question  by,  as  if  it  could  not  possibly 
be  considered,  and  yet  as  if  it  made  another  merry 
chapter  to  her  jest.  Billy  had  gathered  his  consolatory 
forces  for  another  leap. 

"Florrie,"  said  he,  "come  back  to  London  with  me." 

"My  dear  child!" 

"You  marry  me,  Florrie.  I  asked  you  fifty  odd  years 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

ago.  I  could  give  you  a  good  sober  sort  of  establish 
ment,  a  salon  of  a  sort.  I  know  everybody  in  arts  and 
letters.  Come  on,  Florrie." 

Fire  was  in  the  old  lady's  eye.  She  rose  and  made 
him  a  pretty  courtesy. 

"Billy,"  said  she,  "you're  splendid.  I  won't  hold 
you  to  it,  but  it  will  please  me  to  my  dying  day  to  think 
I  've  had  another  offer.  No,  Billy,  no.  You  would  n't 
like  it.  But  you're  splendid." 

Billy,  too,  had  risen.  They  took  hands  and  stood  like 
boy  and  girl  looking  into  each  other's  eyes.  There  was 
a  little  suffusion,  a  tear  perhaps,  the  memory  of  other 
times  when  coin  did  not  have  to  be  counted  so  care 
fully,  when  they  could  open  the  windows  without  inev 
itable  dread  of  the  night,  its  dark  and  chill.  The  old 
lady  broke  the  moment. 

"Come  over  and  see  Bessie  Grant.  What  do  you 
say?" 

"Delighted.   Get  your  hat." 

But  she  appeared  with  a  gay  parasol,  one  of  Electra's, 
appropriated  from  the  stand  with  the  guilty  considera 
tion  that  the  owner  would  hardly  be  back  before  three 
o'clock.  The  old  lady  liked  warm  colors.  She  loved  the 
bright  earth  in  all  its  phases,  and  of  these  a  parasol 
was  one.  They  went  down  the  broad  walk  and  out  into 
the  road  shaded  by  summer  green,  that  quivering  roof- 
work  of  drooping  branches  and  many  leaves. 

"Billy,"  said  she,  "I'm  glad  you've  come." 

"So  am  I,  Florrie;  so  am  I." 

It  was  not  far  to  the  old  Grant  house,  rich  in  the 
amplitude  of  its  size,  and  of  the  grounds,  where  all 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

conceivable  trees  that  make  for  profit  and  delight  were 
colonized  according  to  a  wise  judgment.  The  house 
was  large,  of  a  light  yellow  with  white  trimmings  and 
green  blinds,  and  the  green  of  the  shrubbery  relieved 
it  and  endowed  it  with  an  austere  dignity.  There  was 
a  curving  driveway  to  the  door,  and  following  it,  they 
came  to  the  wide  veranda,  where  an  old  lady  sat  by 
herself,  dozing  and  reflecting  as  Madam  Fulton  had 
done  that  morning.  The  two  canes  by  her  chair  told 
the  story  of  a  sad  inaction.  She  was  of  heroic  stature 
and  breadth.  Her  small,  beautifully  poised  head  had 
thick  white  hair  rolled  back  and  wound  about  in  a  soft 
coil.  Her  face,  pink  with  a  persistent  bloom,  soft  with 
a  contour  never  to  break  or  grow  old,  was  simply  a 
mother's  face.  It  had  the  mother  look,  — the  sweet 
serious  eyes,  the  low  brow,  for  beauty  not  for  thought, 
the  tranquil  mouth.  She  was  dressed  in  a  fine  cambric 
simply  made,  with  little  white  ruffles  about  her  neck 
and  above  her  motherly  hands.  Madam  Fulton  saw 
her  debating  as  they  came,  frowning  a  little,  wonder 
ing  evidently  about  the  stranger.  She  called  to  her. 

"Who  is  this,  Bessie  Grant?" 

The  other  woman  laid  a  hand  upon  her  canes,  and 
then,  as  if  this  were  an  instinctive  movement,  yet  not 
to  be  undertaken  hurriedly,  smiled  and  sat  still,  await 
ing  them.  When  they  were  at  the  steps,  she  spoke  in  an 
exceedingly  pleasant  voice.  It  deepened  the  effect  of  her 
great  gentleness. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Come  right  up  and  teli 
me." 

They  mounted  the  steps  together,  and  Stark  put  out 
23 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

his  hand.  Mrs.  Grant  studied  him  for  a  moment.  Light 
broke  over  her  sweet  old  face. 

"It's  Billy  Stark,"  she  said. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  triumphed  the  other  old  lady. 
"Billy  Stark  come  back  from  foreign  parts  as  good  as 
new.  Now  let's  sit  down  and  talk  it  over." 

They  drew  their  chairs  together,  and,  smiles  and 
glances  mingling,  went  back  over  the  course  of  the  years, 
first  with  a  leap  to  the  keen,  bright  time  when  they  were 
in  school  together.  The  type  of  that  page  was  clear-cut 
and  vivid.  There  were  years  they  skipped  then,  and 
finally  they  came  to  the  present,  and  Billy  said,  — 

"  You  have  two  grandsons?" 

"  Yes.  One  lives  with  me.  The  other  is  coming  home 
to-morrow.  He's  the  painter." 

"Engaged  to  Electra,"  added  Madam  Fulton.  "Did 
you  know  that  ?  They  are  to  be  married  this  summer. 
Then  I  suppose  he'll  go  back  to  Paris  and  she'll  go 
with  him." 

Mrs.  Grant  was  looking  at  her  with  a  grave  attention. 

"We  hope  not,"  she  said,  "Osmond  and  I.  Osmond 
hopes  Peter  will  settle  here  and  do  some  work.  He  thinks 
it  will  be  best  for  him." 

"There's  no  difficulty  about  his  getting  it,"  said  Billy. 
"I  saw  his  portrait  of  Mrs.  Rhys.  That  was  amazing." 

The  grandmother  nodded,  in  a  quiet  pleasure. 

"They  said  so,"  she  returned. 

"It  will  do  everything  for  him." 

"It  has  done  everything.  Osmond  says  he  has  only 
to  sit  down  now  and  paint.  But  he  thinks  it  will  be 
best  for  him  to  do  it  here  — at  least  for  a  time." 

24 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"How  in  the  world  can  Osmond  tell  before  he  sees 
him?"  objected  Madam  Fulton.  "You  haven't  set 
eyes  on  Peter  for  five  years.  He  may  be  Parisian  to  the 
backbone.  You  would  n't  want  to  tie  him  by  the  leg 
over  here." 

"So  Osmond  says.  But  he  hopes  he  won't  want  to 
go  back." 

"I  can  tell  him  one  thing,"  said  the  other  old  lady; 
"he'd  better  make  up  his  mind  to  some  big  centre,  Paris 
or  New  York,  or  he  won't  get  Electra.  Electra  knows 
what  she  wants,  and  it  is  n't  seclusion.  She  is  going  to 
be  the  wife  of  a  celebrated  painter,  and  she'll  insist  on 
the  perquisites.  I  know  Electra." 

Mrs.  Grant  smiled  in  deprecation;  but  Stark  had  a 
habit  of  intuitive  leaps,  and  he  judged  that  she  also 
knew  Electra.  His  mind  wandered  a  little,  as  his  eyes 
ran  over  the  nearer  features  of  the  place.  It  hardly 
suggested  wealth:  only  comfort  and  beauty,  the  grace 
that  comes  of  long  devotion,  the  loving  eye,  the  practiced 
hand.  Somebody's  heart  had  been  put  into  it.  This  was 
the  labor  that  was  not  hired.  He  had  a  strong  curiosity 
to  see  Osmond,  and  yet  he  could  not  ask  for  him  because 
Madam  Fulton  had  once  written  him  some  queer  tale 
of  the  man's  sleeping  in  the  woods,  in  a  house  of  his  own 
building,  and  living  the  wild  life  his  body  needed.  One 
thing  he  learned  now:  Osmond's  name  was  never  out 
of  his  grandmother's  mouth.  She  quoted  his  decisions 
as  if  they  stood  for  ultimate  wisdom.  His  ways  were  good 
and  lovely  to  her. 

The  forenoon  hour  went  by,  and  finally  Madam 
Fulton  remembered. 

25 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Bless  me!"  she  said.  "  It 's  luncheon  time.  Come, 
Billy." 

The  road  was  brighter  now  under  the  mounting  sun. 
Madam  Fulton  was  a  little  tired,  and  they  walked 
silently.  Presently,  at  her  own  gate,  she  suggested,  not 
grudgingly,  but  as  if  the  charm  of  goodness  was,  un 
happily,  assured,  — 

"I  suppose  she's  lovely!" 

"Great!  She's  one  of  those  creatures  that  have  good 
mother-stuff  in  them.  It  does  n't  matter  much  what  they 
mother.  It 's  there.  It 's  a  kind  of  force.  It  helps  —  I 
don't  know  exactly  how." 

"Now  can't  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  That  woman  has 
had  big  things.  She  had  one  of  the  great  loves.  She 
built  it  up,  piece  by  piece,  with  Charlie.  He  kept  a 
devotion  for  her  that  was  n't  to  be  compared  with  the 
tempest  he  felt  about  me.  I'm  sure  of  that." 

Stark  looked  at  her  as  they  walked,  his  eyes  per 
plexedly  denying  the  evidence  of  his  ears. 

"Do  you  know,  Florrie,"  he  said,  "it's  incredible 
to  hear  you  talk  so." 

"Why?" 

"You  have  a  zest  for  life,  a  curiosity  about  it.  Why, 
it's  simply  tremendous." 

"No,  Billy,  no.  It's  not  tremendous.  It's  only  that  I 
am  quite  convinced  I  have  n't  got  my  money's  worth. 
Late  as  it  is,  I  want  it  yet.  I'll  have  it  — if  it's  only 
playing  jokes  on  publishers!" 

They  ate  together  in  the  shaded  room,  and  Madam 
Fulton,  looking  out  through  the  windows  at  the  terrace, 
realized,  with  an  almost  humble  gratitude,  that  the 

26 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

world  itself  and  the  simple  joys  of  it  were  quite  differ 
ent  tasted  in  comradeship.  She  forgot  Electra  and  the 
irritated  sense  that  her  well-equipped  granddaughter 
was  wooing  her  to  the  ideals  of  a  higher  life. 

"Billy,"  she  said  again,  "I'm  uncommon  glad  you 
came." 

Billy's  heart  warmed  with  responsive  satisfaction 
He  had  expected  a  more  or  less  colorless  meeting  with 
his  old  love,  a  philosophic  reference  here  and  there 
to  vanished  youth,  a  twilight  atmosphere  of  waning 
days ;  but  here  she  was,  living  as  hard  as  ever.  And  he 
had  brightened  her;  he  had  given  her  pleasure.  The 
complacency  of  it  reacted  upon  him,  and  he  sought 
about  in  his  clever  mind  for  another  drop  to  fill  the 
beaker.  By  the  time  they  had  finished  their  coffee,  he 
knew. 

"  Florrie,"  said  he,  "  what  if  you  should  put  on  your 
hat  and  take  the  train  with  me?" 

"My  stars,  Billy!  Run  away?" 

"Come  up  to  town.  We'd  scare  up  some  kind  of  a 
theatre  this  evening,  and  in  the  morning  you  could  see 
Gilbert  and  Wall." 

"  And  'fess  ?  Not  by  a  great  sight !  But  I  'd  like  to  go, 
Billy.  Leave  out  Gilbert  and  Wall,  make  it  you  and  me, 
and  I  'm  your  man." 

"  Come  along." 

"Worry  Electra  to  death!"  she  proffered  brightly. 
"I'll  do  it,  Billy.  Here's  the  key  of  my  little  flat,  right 
here  on  the  writing-desk.  I  never  stayed  there  alone, 
but  there 's  no  reason  why  I  should  n't.  You  can  come 
round  in  the  morning,  to  see  if  I  've  had  a  fit,  and  if  I 

27 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

have  n't  we  '11  go  to  breakfast.    But  we  must  take  the 
three  o'clock.   She'll  be  back  by  four." 

She  got  her  bonnet  and  her  handbag,  and  when 
Electra  did  come  back  at  four,  her  grandmother  had 
flown,  leaving  a  note  behind. 


Ill 

THE  next  morning  Electra,  dressed  in  white  and 
rather  pale  at  the  lips,  walked  about  the  garden 
with  a  pretense  of  trimming  a  shrub  here  and  there  and 
steadying  a  flower.  But  she  was  waiting  for  her  lover. 
She  had  expected  him  before.  The  ten  o'clock  would 
bring  him,  and  he  would  come  straight  to  her  without 
stopping  to  see  his  grandmother  and  Osmond.  But 
time  went  by,  and  she  was  nervously  alert  to  the  fact 
that  he  might  not  have  come.  Even  Electra,  who  talked 
of  poise  and  strove  for  it  almost  in  her  sleep,  felt  a  little 
shaken  at  the  deferred  prospect  of  seeing  him.  It  was 
after  those  five  years,  and  his  letters,  voluminous  as  they 
were,  had  not  told  all.  Especially  had  they  omitted  to 
say  of  late  whether  he  meant  to  return  to  France  when 
he  should  be  able  to  take  her  with  him.  To  see  a  lover 
after  such  a  lapse  was  an  experience  not  unconnected 
with  a  possibility  of  surprise  in  herself  as  well  as  in  him. 
She  had  hardly,  even  at  the  first,  explicitly  stated  that 
she  loved  him.  She  had  only  recognized  his  privilege 
of  loving  her.  But  now  she  had  put  on  a  white  dress, 
to  meet  him,  and  the  garden  was,  in  a  sense,  a  protec 
tion  to  her.  The  diversity  of  its  flowery  paths  seemed 
like  a  shade  out  of  the  glare  of  a  defined  relation.  At 
last  there  was  a  step  and  he  was  coming.  She  forced 
herself  to  look  at  him  and  judge  him  as  he  came.  He 
had  scarcely  changed,  except,  perhaps  from  his  hurry 
ing  gait  and  forward  bend,  that  he  was  more  eager. 

29 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

There  was  the  tall  figure,  the  loose  tie  floating  back,  the 
low  collar  and  straight  black  hair  —  the  face  with  its 
aquiline  curve  and  the  wide  swreet  mouth,  the  eager 
dark  eyes  —  he  looked  exactly  like  the  man  who  had 
painted  the  great  portrait  of  the  year.  Then  he  was  close 
to  her,  and  both  her  hands  were  in  his.  He  lifted  them 
quickly  to  his  lips,  one  and  then  the  other. 

"Electra !"  he  said.  It  was  the  same  voice,  the  slight 
eager  hesitancy  in  it  like  the  beginning  of  a  stammer. 

Electra,  to  her  surprise,  said  an  inconsequent  thing. 
It  betrayed  how  she  was  moved. 

"  Grandmother  is  away.   She  has  gone  to  town." 

"  We  will  go  into  the  summer-house,"  said  the  eager 
voice.  "That  is  where  I  always  think  of  you.  You 
remember,  don't  you  ?  " 

He  had  kept  her  hand,  and,  like  two  children,  they 
went  along  the  broad  walk  and  into  the  summer-house, 
where  there  was  a  green  flicker  of  light  from  the  vines. 
There  was  one  chair,  a  rustic  one,  and  Peter  drew  it 
forward  for  her.  When  she  had  seated  herself,  he  sat 
down  on  the  bench  of  the  arbor  close  by,  and,  lifting  her 
hand,  kissed  it  again. 

"Do  you  remember  the  knock-kneed  poem  I  wrote 
you,  Electra  ?  "  he  asked  her.  "  I  called  it  *  My  Imperial 
Lady.'  I  thought  of  it  the  minute  I  saw  you  standing 
there.  My  imperial  lady ! " 

The  current  was  too  fast  for  her.  She  could  not  man 
age  large,  impetuous  things  like  flaming  words  that 
hurtled  at  her  and  seemed  to  ask  a  like  exchange  — 
something  strong  and  steady  in  her  to  meet  them  in 
mid-air  and  keep  them  from  too  swift  an  impact.  His 

30 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

praise  had  always  been  like  the  warriors'  shields  clang 
ing  over  poor  Tarpeia,  —  precious,  but  too  crushing. 
They  disconcerted  her.  If  she  could  not  manage  to 
escape  after  the  first  blow,  she  guessed  how  they  might 
bruise. 

"  When  did  you  come  ?  "  she  asked. 

Peter  did  not  answer.  He  was  still  looking  at  her 
with  those  wonderful  eyes  that  always  seemed  to  her  too 
compelling  for  happy  intercourse. 

"Electra,"  he  said,  and  stopped.  She  had  to  answer 
him.  There  must  be  some  heavy  thing  to  break  to  her, 
which  he  felt  unequal  to  the  task  of  telling  unless  she 
helped  him.  "Electra,"  he  said  again,  "I  did  n't  come 
alone.  Some  one  came  with  me.  I  wrote  you  about 
Tom." 

Electra  drew  her  hand  away,  and  sat  up  straight  and 
chilled.  There  had  been  few  moments  of  her  grown-up 
life,  it  seemed  to  her,  unspoiled  by  Tom,  her  recreant 
brother.  In  the  tumultuous  steeple  chase  of  his  exist 
ence  he  had  brought  her  nothing  but  mortification.  In 
his  death,  he  was  at  least  marring  this  first  moment  of 
her  lover's  advent. 

"You  wrote  me  everything,"  she  said.  The  tone 
should  have  discouraged  him.  "You  were  with  him  at 
the  last.  He  knew  you.  I  gather  he  did  n't  send  any 
messages  to  us,  or  you  would  have  given  them." 

"He  did,  Electra." 

"  He  sent  a  message  ?  " 

"  I  simply  could  n't  write  it,  because  I  knew  I  should 
be  home  so  soon.  It  was  about  his  wife.  He  begged 
you  to  be  kind  to  her." 

31 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"  His  wife !  Tom  was  not  married." 

"He  was  married,  Electra,  to  a  very  beautiful  girl. 
I  have  brought  her  home  with  me." 

Electra  was  upon  her  feet.  Her  face  had  lost  its  cold 
sweet  pallor.  The  scarlet  of  hot  blood  was  upon  it,  a 
swift  response  to  what  seemed  outrage  at  his  hands. 

"I  have  never  —  "  she  gasped.    "It  is  not  true." 

Peter,  too,  had  risen.  He  was  looking  at  her  rather 
wistfully.  His  imperial  lady  had,  in  that  instant,  lost 
her  untouched  calm.  She  was  breathing  ire. 

"Ah,  don't  say  that,"  he  pleaded.  "You  never  saw 
her." 

"  I  can't  help  it.   I  feel  it.   She  is  an  adventuress." 

"Electra!" 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?   What  did  Tom  say  ?  " 

"  He  pointed  to  her  as  she  stood  by  the  window,  her 
back  to  us  —  it  was  the  day  before  he  died  —  and  said, 
'Tell  them  to  be  good  to  her.'" 

"  You  see !  You  don't  even  know  whether  he  meant 
it  as  a  message  to  me  or  some  of  his  associates.  He 
did  n't  say  she  was  his  wife  ?  " 

"No." 

He  answered  calmly  and  rather  gravely,  but  the  green 
world  outside  the  arbor  looked  unsteady  to  him.  Electra 
was  one  of  the  fixed  ideas  of  his  life;  her  nobility,  her 
reserve,  her  strength  had  seemed  to  set  her  far  above 
him.  Now  she  sounded  like  the  devil's  advocate.  She 
was  gazing  at  him  keenly. 

"Her  story  made  a  great  impression  on  you,"  she 
threw  out  incidentally. 

The  effort  was  apparent,  but  Peter  accepted  it. 
32 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  simply.  "  She  makes  a  great  im 
pression  on  everybody.  She  will  on  you." 

"  What  evidence  have  you  brought  me  ?  Did  you  see 
them  married  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Peter,  with  the  same  unmoved  courtesy. 

"  You  see !  Have  you  even  found  any  record  of  their 
marriage  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You  have  the  girl's  word.  She  has  come  over  here 
with  you.  What  for?" 

Peter  lifted  a  hand  to  his  forehead.  He  answered 
gently  as  a  man  sometimes  does,  of  set  purpose,  to 
avoid  falling  into  a  passion. 

"  It  was  the  natural  thing,  Electra.  She  has  no  home, 
poor  child !  —  nor  money,  except  what  Tom  left  in 
his  purse.  He  'd  been  losing  pretty  heavily  just  before. 
I  say,  it  seemed  the  natural  thing  to  come  to  you.  Half 
this  place  was  his.  His  wife  belongs  here."  The  last 
argument  sounded  to  him  unpardonably  crude,  as  to 
an  imperial  lady,  but  he  ventured  it.  Then  he  looked 
at  her.  With  his  artist's  premonition,  he  looked  to  see 
her  brows  drawn,  her  teeth  perhaps  set  angrily  upon 
a  quivering  lip.  But  Electra  was  again  pale.  Her  face 
was  marble  to  him,  to  everything. 

"I  shall  fight  it,"  she  said  inexorably,  "to  the  last 
penny." 

He  gazed  at  her  now  as  if  she  were  a  stranger.  It 
was  incredible  that  this  was  the  woman  whose  hand  he 
had  kissed  but  the  moment  before.  He  ventured  one 
more  defense. 

"Electra,  you  have  not  seen  her." 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  I  shall  not  see  her.  Where  is  she  —  in  New  York  ?  " 

"Here." 

"Here!" 

"  At  grandmother's.  I  left  her  there.  I  thought  when 
we  had  had  our  little  talk  you  would  come  over  with 
me  and  see  her,  and  invite  her  home." 

"Invite  her  here?" 

"I  thought  so." 

"Peter,"  said  Electra,  with  a  quiet  certainty,  "you 
must  be  out  of  your  mind." 

There  they  stood  in  the  arbor,  their  lovers'  arbor,  gaz 
ing  at  each  other  like  strangers.  Peter  recovered  first, 
not  to  an  understanding  of  the  situation,  but  to  the 
need  of  breaking  its  tension. 

"I  fancied,"  he  said,  "you  would  be  eager  to  know 
her." 

"  Is  she  a  grisette  ?  " 

His  mind  ached  under  the  strain  of  taking  her  in. 
He  felt  dumbly  her  contrast  to  the  facile,  sympathetic 
natures  he  had  been  thrown  with  in  his  life  abroad. 
When  he  had  left  her,  Electra  was,  as  she  would  have 
said,  unformed ;  she  had  not  crystallized  into  the  clear 
ness  and  the  hardness  of  the  integrity  she  worshiped. 
To  him,  when  in  thought  he  contrasted  her  with  those 
other  types  who  made  for  joy  and  not  always  for  moral 
beauty,  she  was  immeasurably  exalted.  In  any  given 
crisis  where  other  women  did  well,  he  would  not  have 
questioned  that  Electra  must  have  done  better.  Her 
austerity  was  a  part  of  her  virgin  charm.  But  as  he 
looked  at  her  now,  in  her  clear  outlines,  her  incisive 
speech,  the  side  of  him  that  thrilled  to  beauty  trembled 

34 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

with  something  like  distaste  or  fear.  She  was  like  her 
own  New  England  in  its  bleakness,  without  its  summer 
warmth.  He  longed  for  atmosphere. 

But  she  had  asked  her  question  again:  "Is  she  a 
grisette?" 

He  found  himself  answering :  — 

"She  is  the  daughter  of  Markham  MacLeod." 

"  Not  the  author  ?  Not  the  chief  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter,  with  some  quiet  pride  in  the  as 
surance,  "  chief  of  the  Brotherhood,  the  great  Markham 
MacLeod." 

Electra  pondered. 

"If  that  is  true,"  she  said,  "I  must  call  on  her." 

"  True  ?  I  tell  you  it  is  true.  Electra,  what  are  you 
saying  ?  " 

But  Electra  was  looking  at  him  with  those  clear  eyes 
where  dwelt  neither  guile  nor  tolerance  of  the  guile 
of  others. 

"Did  she  tell  you  so,"  she  inquired,  "or  do  you 
know  it  for  a  fact  ?  " 

He  had  himself  well  in  hand  now,  because  it  had 
sprung  into  his  wise  artist  brain  that  he  must  not  break 
the  beauty  of  their  interview.  It  was  fractured,  but  if 
they  turned  the  hurt  side  away  from  the  light,  possibly 
no  one  would  know,  and  the  outer  crystalline  sheen  of 
the  thing  would  be  deceptively  the  same. 

"  I  know  Markham  MacLeod,"  he  said.  "  I  have  seen 
them  together.  She  calls  him  father." 

A  wave  of  interest  swept  over  her  face. 

"Do  you  mean  you  really  know  him,  Peter?" 

"Assuredly." 

35 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"As  the  leader  of  the  Brotherhood?" 

"Yes,  the  founder." 

"He  is  proscribed  in  Russia  and  watched  in  France. 
Is  that  true?" 

"All  true." 

"  He  gave  up  writing  for  this  —  to  go  about  organ 
izing  and  speaking  ?  That 's  true,  is  n't  it  ? J 

"  Quite  true." 

"How  much  do  you  know  about  the  Brotherhood, 
Peter?" 

"  I  belong  to  it." 

He  straightened  as  he  spoke.  An  impulse  of  pride 
passed  over  him,  and  she  read  the  betrayal  in  his  kin 
dling  eyes  and  their  widened  pupils. 

"  Is  there  work  for  you  ?  "  she  asked,  "  for  men  who 
don't  speak  and  proselytize  ?  " 

"I  do  speak,  Electra." 

"You  do?" 

"  I  have  spoken  a  little.  I  can't  do  it  yet  in  the  way 
he  wants.  What  he  wants  is  money." 

"We  have  sent  him  money,"  she  agreed.  "The 
Delta  Club  gave  a  series  of  plays  last  winter  and  voted 
him  the  proceeds.  The  first  was  for  labor  in  America. 
The  second  for  free  Russia." 

"  Yes,  it  pours  in  on  him.  It 's  his  enormous  magnet 
ism." 

"It's  his  cause." 

She  seemed  to  have  reached  something  now  that 
warmed  her  into  life,  and  he  took  advantage  of  that 
kindling. 

"Rose  is  his  daughter,"  he  reminded  her.  "She  is 
36 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

very  beautiful,  very  sad.  She  is  worthy  of  such  a  fa 
ther." 

"  Rose  ?   Is  that  her  actual  name  ?  " 

"Yes.  They  are  Americans,  though  since  her  child 
hood  she  has  lived  in  France." 

"  What  did  she  do  before  Tom  —  got  acquainted 
with  her  ?  Live  there  in  Paris  with  her  father  ?  " 

"She  sang.  She  has  a  moving  voice.  She  always 
hoped  she  was  going  to  sing  better,  but  there  never  was 
money  enough  to  give  her  the  right  training.  Then 
she  began  going  about  with  her  father.  She  spoke, 
too." 

"  In  public  ?   For  the  Brotherhood  ? " 

"Yes.  She  has  great  magnetism.  But  she  stopped 
doing  that." 

"Why?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  heard  her  father  ask  her  to 
do  it,  but  she  refused.  She  is  beautiful,  Electra." 

Electra  was  looking  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"Did  she  persuade  you  to  join  the  Brotherhood?" 
she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Peter,  unmoved,  "  the  chief  himself  per 
suaded  me.  I  went  to  a  great  meeting  one  Sunday  night. 
I  heard  him.  That  was  the  end  of  me.  I  knew  where 
I  belonged." 

Electra,  her  mind  hidden  from  him  as  completely  as 
if  a  veil  had  fallen  between  them,  was,  he  could  see,  con 
sidering  him.  As  for  her,  he  hardly  dared  dwell  upon 
her  as  she  ruthlessly  seemed.  She  was  again  like  the 
bright  American  air,  too  determinate,  too  sharp.  She 
almost  hurt  the  eyes.  He  wondered  vaguely  over  several 

37 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

things  he  was  unwilling  to  ask  her,  since  he  could  not 
bear  to  bring  their  difference  to  a  finished  issue:  why 
she  cherished  a  boundless  belief  in  the  father  and  only 
reprobation  for  the  daughter,  when  she  had  seen  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other;  why  she  had  this  vivid  enthusi 
asm  for  the  charity  that  embraces  the  world  and  none 
for  a  friendless  child  at  her  door.  Their  interview 
seemed  to  have  dropped  flat  in  inconceivable  collapse; 
what  was  to  have  been  the  beginning  of  their  dual  life 
was  only  the  encounter  of  a  hand-to-hand  discussion. 
He  tried  to  summon  back  the  vividness  to  his  fagged 
emotions,  and  gave  it  up.  Then  he  ventured  to  think  of 
his  imperial  lady,  and  found  a  satirical  note  beating 
into  his  mind.  He  took  refuge  in  the  practical. 

"I  have  not  seen  Osmond  yet." 

"  Was  n't  he  there  to  meet  you  ?  " 

"  No.  Grannie  said  I  should  have  to  go  down  to  the 
plantation,  to  find  him.  Does  he  keep  up  his  old  ways, 
Electra?" 

"  Yes.  Sleeping  practically  out  of  doors  summer  and 
winter,  or  in  the  shack,  as  he  calls  it,  —  that  log  hut  he 
put  up  years  ago.  Have  n't  you  known  about  him  ? 
Hasn't  he  written?" 

"Oh,  he  writes,  but  not  about  himself.  Osmond 
would  n't  do  that.  Somehow  grandmother  never  wrote 
any  details  about  him  either.  I  fancied  he  did  n't  want 
her  to.  So  I  never  asked.  She  only  said  he  was  'well.' 
You  know  Osmond  always  says  that  himself." 

"I  believe  he  is  well,"  said  Electra  absently.  She 
was  thinking  of  the  alien  presence  at  the  other  house. 
"  He  looks  it  —  strong,  tanned.  Osmond  is  very  im- 

38 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

pressive  somehow.    It 's  fortunate  he  was  n't  a  little 
man." 

Peter  made  one  of  the  quick  gestures  he  had  learned 
since  he  had  been  away  from  her.  They  told  the  tale 
of  give  and  take  with  a  more  mobile  people.  He  could 
not  ask  her  to  ignore  Osmond's  deformity,  yet  he  could 
not  bear  to  hear  her  speak  of  it.  Osmond  was,  he 
thought,  a  colossal  figure,  to  be  accepted,  whatever  his 
state,  like  the  roughened  rock  that  builds  the  wall.  He 
rose,  terminating,  without  his  conscious  will,  an  inter 
view  that  was  to  have  lasted,  if  she  had  gone  to  the  other 
house  with  him  and  he  had  returned  again  with  her,  the 
day  long. 

"I  must  see  Osmond,"  he  hesitated. 

Electra,  too,  had  risen. 

"Yes,"  she  said  conformably,  though  the  table,  she 
knew,  would  be  laid  for  them  both  in  what  had  pro 
mised  to  be  their  lovers'  seclusion. 

"  I  will  come  back.   This  afternoon,  Electra  ?  " 

That  morning  the  afternoon  had  been  his  and  hers 
only.  She  had  expected  to  listen  to  the  recital  of  his 
triumphs  in  Paris,  and  to  scan  eagerly  the  map  of  his 
prospects  which  was  to  show  her  way  also.  And  she  too 
opened  her  lips  and  spoke  without  preconsidered  intent. 

"This  afternoon  I  shall  be  busy.  I  have  to  go  in 
town." 

"You  won't  — "  he  hesitated  again.  "Electra,  you 
won't  call  at  the  house  on  the  way,  and  see  her,  at 
least?" 

"Your  Rose?"  She  smiled  at  him  brilliantly.  "Not 
to-day,  Peter." 

39 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Then,  bruised,  bewildered,  he  went  back  over  the 
path  he  had  come,  leaving  his  imperial  lady  to  go  in 
and  order  the  luncheon  table  prepared  for  one. 

"  Madam  Fulton  will  not  be  home,"  she  said  to  the 
maid,  with  a  proud  unconsciousness;  and  for  the  mo 
ment  it  sounded  as  if  Madam  Fulton  had  been  the 
expected  guest. 


IV 

WHEN  Peter  went  up  the  steps  of  his  grand 
mother's  house,  he  found  Mrs.  Grant  still  on 
the  veranda,  and  Rose  beside  her.  The  girl  looked  at 
him  eagerly,  as  if  she  besought  him  for  whatever  mes 
sage  he  had,  and  he  answered  the  glance  with  one 
warmed  by  implied  sympathy.  Until  he  saw  her,  he 
had  not  realized  that  anger  made  any  part  in  the  emo 
tion  roused  in  him  by  his  imperial  lady.  Now  he  remem 
bered  how  this  gracious  young  creature  seemed  to  him, 
so  innocent,  so  sad.  He  felt  a  rising  in  his  throat,  as  he 
thought  of  subjecting  her  to  unfriendly  judgment.  Rose, 
in  spite  of  the  serious  cast  of  her  face  and  the  repose 
of  her  figure,  wore  an  ineffable  air  of  youth.  She  had 
splendid  shoulders  and  a  yielding  waist,  and  her  fine 
hands  lay  like  a  separate  beauty  in  the  lap  of  her  black 
dress.  She  had  the  profile  of  a  coin  touched  with  finer 
human  graces,  a  fullness  of  the  upper  lip,  a  slight  waving 
of  the  soft  chestnut  hair  over  the  low  forehead,  and  lashes 
too  dark  for  harmony  with  the  gray  eyes.  There  were 
defects  in  her  flawlessness.  Her  mouth  was  large,  in 
spite  of  its  pout,  and  on  her  nose  were  a  few  beguiling 
freckles.  At  that  moment,  in  her  wayward  beauty, 
lighted  by  the  kindled  eye  of  expectation,  she  seemed 
to  Peter  to  be  made  up  of  every  creature's  best.  His 
grandmother  smiled  at  him  out  of  her  warm  placidity, 
and  though  Rose  still  drew  his  eyes  to  her,  he  was  aware 
that  she  did  not  mean  to  question  him. 

41 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Electra  has  to  go  in  town,"  he  volunteered.  "She 
won't  be  back.  Perhaps  not  to-night." 

"You  must  stay  here  with  us,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Grant.  "Peter,  have  her  trunks  moved  into  the  west 
chamber." 

Still  the  girl's  eyes  seemed  to  interrogate  him,  and 
Peter  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  twined  his  long  fingers 
in  and  out.  He  felt  the  drop  in  temperature  ready  to 
chill  the  voyager  who,  after  the  lonely  splendor  of  the 
sea,  returns  to  the  earth  as  civil  life  has  made  it. 

"  We  must  remember  she  had  n't  heard  of  you,"  he 
assured  Rose  blunderingly,  out  of  his  depression. 

"  No.  He  had  not  written."  She  made  the  statement 
rather  as  that  of  a  fact  they  shared  together,  and  he 
nodded.  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  unwelcome  to  her,  the  idea 
of  me." 

"  She  does  n't  know  you,"  he  assured  her,  in  the  same 
bungling  apology.  He  expected  her  to  betray  some 
wound  to  her  pride,  but  she  only  looked  humble  and  a 
little  crushed. 

Grannie  had  apparently  not  heard,  and  she  said  now, 
with  her  lovely  gentleness,  — 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  upstairs,  my  dear,  and  be  by 
yourself  a  little  while  ?  You  have  been  traveling  so  far. 
We  have  noon  dinner,  you  know.  That  will  seem  funny 
to  you.  Mary  is  getting  it,  but  Peter  will  show  you  a 
room." 

Peter  found  her  bag  in  the  wide  hall,  darkened  from 
the  sun,  and  went  with  her  up  the  stairs.  At  the  head  she 
paused  and  beckoned  him  to  the  window-seat  over  the 
front  door. 

42 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Set  it  down  there,"  she  said  rapidly,  touching  the 
bag  with  a  finger.  "  Tell  me  —  how  did  she  receive  it  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  You  know.   The  news  of  me." 

"She  was  surprised." 

"Naturally.   But  what  else?  She  was  shocked !" 

"It  was  a  shock,  of  course.  In  its  suddenness,  you 
know.  You'd  expect  that." 

She  sank  down  in  the  window-seat  and  clasped  her 
hands  upon  her  knees,  looking  at  them  thoughtfully. 
Her  brows  were  drawn  together. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "yes.  It  was  a  shock.  I  see  that. 
Well ! "  She  looked  up  at  him  in  a  challenging  directness 
before  which  he  winced,  conscious  of  the  little  he  had  to 
meet  it  with.  "When  am  I  to  see  her?" 

"I  am  not  sure  when  she  is  to  be  back." 

"Ah!  She  won't  come  to  me.  Very  well.  I  shall  go 
to  her."  She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  bag,  and  rose,  as 
if  the  interview  were  ended.  Peter  carried  the  bag  in  at 
the  open  door  of  her  room,  and  after  he  had  set  it  down, 
looked  vaguely  about  him,  as  if  arrangements  might  be 
bettered  in  the  still,  sweet  place.  She  was  smiling  at 
him  with  an  irradiating  warmth. 

"You 're  sorry,  are  n't  you  ? "  she  said,  from  a  compre 
hension  that  seemed  a  proffer  of  vague  sympathy.  "It 
makes  you  feel  inhospitable.  You  need  n't.  You  're  a 
dear.  Your  grandmother  is  lovely  — lovely." 

Her  praise  seemed  to  Peter  such  a  precious  fruitage 
that  the  only  thing,  in  delicacy,  was  to  turn  away  and 
take  it  with  him  to  enjoy.  But  she  was  calling  him. 

"Peter!" 

43 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

He  found  her  flushed  and  eagerly  expectant,  it  seemed 
to  him,  as  if  his  news  had  been  uplifting  to  her.  She 
looked  at  him,  at  the  room,  and  rapidly  from  the  win 
dow  where  the  treetops  trembled,  all  in  one  compre 
hensive  sweep. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  with  conviction,  "it's  simply  lovely 
here." 

"It's  a  nice  old  place,"  responded  Peter.  He  loved 
it  from  long  use,  but  he  was  aware  of  its  comfortable 
plainness. 

"I  never  saw  anything  so  dear.  Those  square  worn 
tiles  down  by  the  front  door,  the  fireplace,  the  curtains, 
—  look,  Peter,  it's  dotted  muslin."  She  touched  a  mov 
ing  fold,  and  Peter  laughed  outright. 

"I  like  it,"  he  said,  "but  there's  nothing  particular 
about  it.  If  you  want  style,  why,  you'll  have  to  look 
back  at  what  you  Ve  left.  When  it  comes  to  that,  what 's 
the  matter  with  a  chateau  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes."  She  put  the  chateau  aside  with  one  of 
her  light  movements  of  the  hands.  "But  here  I  feel  as  if 
I  'd  come  home  to  something.  You  see  it 's  so  safe  here, 
Peter.  It 's  so  darling,  too,  so  intimate.  I  can't  tell  what 
I  mean.  If  Electra  would  only  like  me  —  O  Peter,  I 
could  be  almost  happy,  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long!" 
As  she  said  the  old  phrase,  it  seemed  to  her  to  fit  into 
the  scene.  She  looked  not  merely  as  if  happiness  awaited 
her,  but  as  if  she  could  almost  put  her  eager  finger  on  it. 
And  there  was  Electra,  not  so  many  rods  away,  draw 
bridge  up  and  portcullis  down,  inquiring,  "Is  she  a 
grisette?"  Afterwards  it  seemed  to  Peter  as  if  his  sym 
pathy  for  the  distressed  lady  went  to  his  head  a  little, 

44 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

for  he  lifted  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  But  he  did  not 
speak,  save  to  himself,  going  down  the  stairs :  — 

"It's  a  damned  shame!" 

When  he  went  out  on  the  veranda,  grannie  made  a 
smiling  comment :  — 

"What  a  pretty  child !  Tom  Fulton  did  well.  He  was 
a  bad  boy,  was  n't  he,  Peter  ? " 

"Yes,  grannie,"  said  Peter,  from  the  veranda  rail 
where  he  sat  picking  rose  leaves,  "Tom  was  about  the 
limit." 

"Well!  well!  poor  girl.  Maybe  it's  as  well  he  went 
while  she  knew  only  the  best  of  him." 

Peter  was  not  sure  she  did  know  only  the  best,  but 
he  inquired,  — 

"Shall  I  have  time  to  run  down  and  see  Osmond  be 
fore  dinner?" 

"You'd  better.  He  was  here  waiting  when  the  car 
riage  came.  When  he  saw  her,  he  slipped  away." 

"Rose?" 

"Rose?  Is  that  her  name?  Now  is  n't  that  pretty! 
Maybe  you'll  find  him  before  you  get  to  the  plantation. 
I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  'd  think  it  over  and  come  back." 

Peter  did  meet  him  in  the  lane  lined  with  locusts  on 
each  side,  walking  doggedly  back  to  the  house.  Some 
things  the  younger  brother  had  forgotten  about  him, 
the  beauty  of  the  dark  face  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
cut  out  of  rock,  the  extraordinary  signs  of  strength,  in 
spite  of  that  which  might  have  appealed  to  pity.  Os 
mond  had  grown  rugged  with  every  year.  His  long  arms, 
ending  in  the  brown,  supple  hands,  looked  as  if  they  were 
compact  of  sinewy  potencies.  And  on  his  shoulders, 

45 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

heavier  than  Christian's  burden,  was  that  pack  he  must 
carry  to  the  end  of  life.  He  saw  his  brother  coming,  and 
stopped,  and  Peter,  as  if  to  save  him  the  sense  of  being 
looked  at  from  afar,  even  by  his  own  kin,  ran  to  meet 
him.  They  did  not  take  hands,  but  the  older  brother 
gave  him  a  slap  on  the  shoulder. 

"Well,  boy!"  said  he. 

There  were  tears  in  Peter's  eyes. 

"Look-a-here,"  he  cried,  "I'm  sniveling.  Coming 
up  to  the  house?" 

"No.  I've  been  there  once  this  morning.  You  come 
back  with  me." 

They  turned  about,  and  walked  on  through  the  lane. 
It  led  to  the  plantation ;  this  was  the  nursery,  here  were 
the  forcing  beds,  and  all  the  beneficent  growing  things 
that  had  saved  Osmond's  life  while  he  tended  them, 
and  also  earned  his  bread  for  him,  and  Peter's  bread 
and  paints. 

"Well,  boy,"  said  Osmond,  "you've  brought  a  girl 
with  you.  That  was  why  I  cut.  Who  is  she  ?" 

"Tom  Fulton's  wife  — his  widow." 

Osmond  knew  Electra  very  well.  Some  phases  of  her 
were  apparent  to  him  in  his  secluded  life  that  her  lover, 
under  the  charm  of  an  epistolary  devotion,  had  never 
seen. 

"Does  Electra  know  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  told  her."  Peter's  tone  added  further,  "Shut  up, 
now!"  and  Osmond  tacitly  agreed. 

"Coming  down  to  dinner?"  he  asked  safely. 

"No,  I  must  be  back.  I  feel  responsible  for  her  — 
Rose.  I  brought  her  over.  In  fact,  I  rather  urged  her 

46 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

coming.    Grannie  has  asked  her  to  stay  with  us  until 
Electra  is  — at  home." 

"Is  her  name  Rose?" 

"  Yes  —  one  of  those  creamy  yellow  ones.  You  must 
see  her.  She's  a  dear.  She's  a  beauty,  too." 

"Oh,  I've  seen  her,  — one  ear  and  a  section  of  cheek 
and  some  yellow  hair.  Then  I  ran." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  man!  what  for?" 

"She's  one  of  those  invincible  Parisians.  I've  read 
about  them." 

Peter  burst  out  laughing.  Osmond's  tone  betrayed  a 
terrified  admiration. 

"Do  you  eat  down  here  with  the  men?"  Peter  was 
asking. 

"Sometimes.  I  go  up  and  eat  with  grannie  once  a 
day  while  she's  alone.  I  shan't  now." 

"Why  not?" 

"You'll  be  here  to  keep  her  company,  you  and  your 
Parisian.  I've  got  to  go  on  being  a  wild  man,  Pete.  I 
shan't  save  my  soul  alive  if  I  don't  do  that." 

Peter  put  out  a  hand  and  laid  it,  for  an  instant,  on 
his  brother's  arm. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  your  soul,  old  man," 
he  said,  with  a  moving  roughness.  "But  if  you  like  this 
kind  of  a  life,  you're  going  to  have  it,  that's  all.  Who 
cooks  the  dinner?" 

"Pierre.  He  came  just  after  you  went  to  France. 
There 's  a  pot-au-feu  to-day.  I  smelled  it  when  I  went  by 
the  kitchen.  It's  a  good  life,  Pete,  — if  you  don't  want 
to  play  the  game."  His  eyes  grew  wistful,  something 
like  the  eyes  of  the  dog  that  longs  for  man,, 

47 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"If  you  don't  play  the  game,  I  don't  know  who  does." 
"Well ! "  Osmond  smiled  a  little,  whimsically.  " May 
be  I  do;  but  I  play  with  counters/' 

Peter  was  not  especially  ready,  save  with  a  brush  in 
his  hand.  He  wanted  to  say  something  to  the  effect 
that  Osmond  was  playing  the  biggest  of  all  games,  with 
the  visible  universe  against  him ;  but  he  hardly  knew  how 
to  put  it.  It  seemed,  though,  as  if  he  might  some  time 
paint  it  into  a  picture.  But  Osmond  was  recognizing 
the  danger  of  soft  implication,  and  bluffly  turned  the 
talk. 

"Well,  Pete,  you've  done  it,  haven't  you?" 
There  was  no  possibility  of  affecting  to  misunder 
stand.  Peter  knew  what  he  had  gone  to  Paris  for,  five 
years  ago,  and  why  Osmond  had  been  sending  him  the 
steady  proceeds  of  the  garden  farm.  He  was  to  prove 
himself,  take  his  talent  in  his  hand  and  mould  it  and 
turn  it  about  with  a  constant  will,  and  shape  a  cup  to 
hold  the  drink  that  makes  the  gods  jealous  and  men 
delirious  with  adulation.  Peter  was  to  live  at  his  ease 
in  Paris,  sparing  nothing  that  would  keep  him  well  and 
strong  of  heart,  so  that  he  could  paint  the  best  portraits 
in  the  world.  Peter  knew  he  had  begun  to  paint  the  best 
portraits  in  the  world,  because  he  had  done  many  good 
ones  and  one  actual  marvel,  and  suddenly,  as  it  some 
times  is  in  art  after  we  have  been  patient  and  dis 
couraged,  the  whole  task  seemed  to  him  a  light  and  easy 
one.  In  his  extraordinary  youth  he  had  the  freshness  of 
his  brain,  his  quick  eye  and  obedient  hand,  and  he  felt, 
lightly  and  gayly,  that  he  was  rich,  —  but  rich  in  a  world 
where  there  was  plenty  more  of  whatever  he  might  lose. 

48 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"I  guess  so,"  he  said,  returning  to  the  speech  of  his 
youth.  "And  I  can  do  it  twice,  old  man.  I  can  do  it  a 
hundred  times." 

Osmond  stopped  and  laid  a  hand  on  a  boulder  at  the 
termination  of  their  way,  where  the  lane  opened  into 
plowed  fields.  He  looked  off  through  the  distance  as  if 
he  saw  the  courts  of  the  world  and  all  the  roads  that  run 
to  fame.  His  eyes  were  burning.  The  hand  trembled 
upon  the  rock. 

"By  George!"  he  said,  "it's  amazing." 

"What  is,  Osmond?" 

"It's  amazing  that  the  world  can  hold  so  much  for 
one  man.  You  would  n't  think  there  would  be  water 
enough  in  all  the  rivers  for  one  man  to  drink  so  deep. 
What  does  Electra  say  ?  " 

"  About  the  painting  ?    Nothing  yet." 

"  Did  n't  you  speak  of  it  ?  Why,  you  're  covered  with 
laurel,  boy,  like  Jack-in-the- Green.  She  could  n't  help 
seeing  it." 

Peter,  brought  back  to  that  luckless  interview  with 
the  imperial  lady,  felt  shamefaced  in  his  knowledge  of  it. 

"We  did  n't  get  to  that,"  he  said.  "We  were  talking 
about  Rose.  Who  do  you  think  she  is,  Osmond  ?  " 

"Tom's  widow.   So  you  said." 

"  Yes,  but  what  more  ?  She 's  the  daughter  of  Mark- 
ham  MacLeod." 

He  was  watching  Osmond  narrowly,  to  weigh  the 
effect  of  the  name.  But  Osmond's  face  kept  its  im 
pressive  interest. 

"You  know  who  he  is,"  Peter  suggested. 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes !  But  that  does  n't  mean  anything  to 
49 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

me.  Nothing  does  until  I  see  the  man.  He  works  with 
too  big  a  brush.  He  is  an  agitator.  He  may  be  Christ  or 
Anti-Christ,  but  he's  an  agitator.  That's  all  I  know. 
I  can't  give  a  snap  judgment  of  a  man  that  gets  whole 
governments  into  a  huff  and  knows  how  to  lead  a  rabble 
a  million  strong.  So  he 's  her  father  ?  " 

Peter,  unreasonably  irritated,  pitched  upon  one  word 
for  a  cause  of  war. 

"Rabble?  What  do  you  mean  by  that ?   Labor?" 

Osmond  smiled  broadly  and  showed  his  white  teeth. 

"  I  'm  labor  myself,"  he  said.  "  You  know  that,  boy." 

"  Then  what  do  you  want  to  talk  so  for  ?    Rabble ! " 

"I  only  meant  it  in  relation  to  numbers,"  said  Os 
mond,  again  irritatingly,  in  his  indifference  to  all  inter 
ests  outside  his  dear  boy's  home-coming.  "I'll  make 
it  a  rabble  of  kings,  if  you  say  so.  Folks,  Peter,  that 's 
what  I  mean,  folks.  He  deals  with  them  in  the  mass. 
That  makes  me  nervous.  I  can't  like  it." 

"He  believes  in  the  equality  of  man,"  Peter  an 
nounced,  as  he  was  conscious,  rather  swellingly.  "  The 
downfall  of  kings,  the  freedom  of  the  individual." 

"There's  the  pot-au-feu  smoking  inside  that  shack," 
said  Osmond,  indicating  a  shanty  across  the  field. 
"  Come  and  have  dinner  with  labor." 

But  Peter  turned.   He  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't,  Osmond,"  he  said.  "I've  brought  this  girl 
into  the  house,  and  I  've  got  to  see  her  through.  Won't 
you  come  up  to-night?" 

"Not  till  your  Parisian  has  gone  over  to  Electra's. 
You  come  down  here.  Come  down  about  dusk  and 
we'll  have  another  go." 

50 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

As  Peter  hurried  back,  conscious  of  being  a  little  late, 
he  could  have  beaten  his  head  against  the  locust  trees 
for  the  stupidity  of  his  home-coming.  He  had  the  shat 
tered  moment  with  Electra  to  remember,  and  now  he 
had  turned  the  other  great  meeting  of  the  day  into  a 
fractious  colloquy.  Unformed  yet  vivid  in  his  mind,  for 
the  last  year,  had  been  strong,  determining  anticipations 
of  what  would  happen  when  he  at  last  came  home.  He 
had  known  certainly  what  would  happen  when  he  saw 
Electra.  She  would  still  be  the  loveliest  and  best,  and 
his  would  be  the  privilege  of  telling  her  so.  And  to 
Osmond,  who  had  dug  in  the  ground  that  Peter  might 
work  under  the  eye  of  men,  he  would  return  as  one  who 
has  an  account  to  give,  and  say,  in  effect,  "  You  did  it." 
But,  laughably,  neither  of  these  things  had  happened. 
He  forgot  that  he  had  in  him  the  beginnings  of  a  great 
painter  in  remembering  that  he  had  shown  the  obtuse- 
ness  of  an  ass. 

He  did  not  see  Electra  that  night.  After  the  noon 
dinner  he  left  Rose  and  grannie  intimately  together,  — 
the  girl,  with  a  gentle  deprecation,  as  if  she  brought 
gifts  not  in  themselves  worth  much,  talking  about  Paris, 
the  air  young  Peter  had  been  breathing,  —  and  betook 
himself  again  to  Electra's  house.  It  was  all  open  to  the 
day,  but  no  one  answered  his  knock.  He  went  in  and 
wandered  from  parlor  to  library,  the  dignified  rooms 
that  had  once  seemed  to  him  so  typical  of  her  estate  as 
compared  to  his  own :  for  in  those  days  he  had  been  only 
a  young  man  of  genius  with  scarcely  enough  money  to 
live  and  study  on,  save  as  his  brother  earned  it  for  him. 
He  sauntered  in  and  out  for  an  hour  —  it  seemed  as  if 

51 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

even  the  two  servants  had  gone  —  and  then  played 
snatches  at  the  piano,  to  waken  drowsy  ears.  But  the 
house  kept  its  quiet,  and  in  the  late  afternoon  he  wan 
dered  home  again.  That  evening  he  returned,  and  then 
there  was  some  one  to  answer  his  knock.  The  maid  told 
him  Miss  Electra  had  gone  out ;  but  though  he  waited 
in  a  fevered  and  almost  an  angry  impatience,  she  did 
not  return.  Knowing  her  austere  and  literal  truth,  he 
could  not  believe  that  the  denial  was  the  conventional 
expedient,  and  in  a  wave  of  regret  over  the  day,  he 
longed  for  her  inexpressibly.  It  seemed  to  him  that  no 
distance  would  be  too  great  to  bring  him  to  her.  He  felt 
in  events,  and  in  himself  also,  the  rushing  of  some  force 
to  separate  them,  and  swung  back,  after  his  blame  of 
her,  into  the  necessity  of  a  more  passionate  partisanship. 
When  he  went  home,  still  without  seeing  her,  he  found 
his  grandmother's  house  deserted.  But  the  minute  his 
foot  sounded,  there  was  a  soft  rush  down  the  stairs. 
Rose  stood  beside  him  in  the  hall. 

"  Did  you  see  her  ?  "  she  asked  breathlessly. 

He  strove  to  make  his  laugh  an  evidence  of  the  rea 
sonableness  of  what  he  had  to  answer. 

"No.   She  was  obliged  to  be  away." 

"  Is  n't  she  at  home  now  ? "  asked  the  girl  insistently. 
"She  is  there,  and  you  refuse  to  hurt  me.  She  won't 
see  me!" 

"  She  is  not  there,"  said  Peter,  in  relief  at  some  small 
truth  to  tell.  "  I  have  n't  seen  her  since  morning." 

The  girl  stood  there  in  the  faint  radiance  of  the  hall 
lamp,  her  eyes  downcast,  thinking.  She  had  dressed 
for  dinner,  though  there  was  only  high  tea  in  the  old- 

52 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

fashioned  house,  and  delighted  grannie  beyond  words. 
The  old  lady  said  it  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  her,  who 
never  went  out,  to  see  a  lovely  dress  trailing  about  the 
rooms.  Peter,  looking  at  the  girl,  felt  his  heart  admonish 
him  that  here  was  beauty  demanding  large  return  of 
kindly  treatment  from  the  world.  Not  only  must  justice 
be  done  her,  but  it  must  be  done  lavishly.  This  was  for 
all  their  sakes.  Electra  could  not  be  allowed  to  lose  any 
thing  so  precious,  nor  could  he  lose  it  either,  his  small 
share  of  tribute.  She  was  speaking,  still  with  that  air  of 
pondering :  — 

"  I  must  do  it  myself.  I  must  n't  let  you  risk  any 
thing."  Then  she  turned  her  full  glance  on  him,  and 
frankly  smiled.  "Good-night,"  she  said,  giving  him 
her  hand.  "  Don't  speak  of  me  to  her.  Don't  think  of 
me.  I  must  do  it  all  myself." 


NEXT  morning  it  was  a  different  Rose  he  saw,  quite 
cosy  and  cheerful  at  the  breakfast-table,  with  no 
sign  of  tragedy  on  her  brow.  The  day  was  fair,  and  the 
mood  of  the  world  seemed  to  him,  for  no  reason,  to 
have  lightened.  It  was  not  credible  that  Electra,  of  all 
gracious  beings,  should  sulk  outside  the  general  har 
mony.  After  breakfast,  when  Rose  had,  with  a  sweet  air 
of  service,  given  grannie  her  arm  to  the  veranda  chair, 
she  returned  to  Peter,  waiting,  perhaps  for  a  word  with 
her,  in  the  hall.  His  hat  swung  from  his  hand,  and  see 
ing  that,  she  spoke  in  a  low,  quick  tone. 

"You  are  going  over  there.   Don't  do  it." 

"I  must.   I  want  to  see  her." 

"  I  know.  But  not  yet.  Let  me  see  her  first.  If  you 
talk  about  me,  it  will  make  trouble  between  you,  — 
not  real  trouble,  perhaps,  but  something  unfortunate, 
something  wrong.  I  am  going  myself,  now."  She 
pointed  out  her  hat  and  gloves  where  she  had  them 
ready,  and  without  waiting  for  him  to  speak,  began 
pinning  on  the  hat.  While  she  drew  on  the  gloves  she 
looked  at  him  again  with  her  charming  smile.  "  Don't 
you  see,"  she  said,  "  we  can  get  along  better  alone  — 
two  women  ?  Which  house  is  it  ?  " 

He  followed  her  out  and  down  the  steps. 

"I'll  go  part  of  the  way  with  you." 

She  waved  a  gay  farewell  to  grannie,  busy  already 
54 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

at  her  knitting,  and  they  went  down  the  path.    But  at 
the  gate  she  paused. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "which  way?   Which  house?" 

"The  next  one." 

"  I  see.  Among  the  trees.  Now  don't  come.  Whatever 
happens,  don't  come.  If  I  am  not  here  to  dinner,  —  if 
I  am  never  here.  You  simply  must  not  appear  in  this. 
Good-by."  She  gave  her  parasol  a  little  reassuring 
fling,  as  if  it  were  a  weapon  that  proved  her  amply 
armed,  and  took  her  swift  way  along  the  shaded  road. 

Peter  stood  for  a  moment  watching  her.  She  went 
straight  on,  and  the  resolution  of  her  gait  bore  sufficient 
witness  to  her  purpose.  He  turned  about  then  and  went 
rather  disconsolately  the  other  way,  which  would  bring 
him  out  at  the  path  to  Osmond's  plantation. 

Rose,  going  up  the  garden  path,  came  upon  Electra 
herself,  again  dressed  in  white  and  among  the  flower 
beds.  Whether  she  hoped  her  lover  would  come,  and 
was  awaiting  him,  her  face  did  not  tell ;  but  she  met  Rose 
with  the  same  calm  expectancy.  There  was  ample  time 
for  her  to  walk  away,  to  avoid  the  interview ;  but  Electra 
was  not  the  woman  to  do  that.  False  things,  paltering 
things,  were  as  abhorrent  to  her  in  her  own  conduct  as 
in  that  of  another.  So  she  stood  there,  her  hands  at  her 
sides  in  what  she  would  have  called  perfect  poise,  as 
Rose,  very  graceful  yet  flushed  and  apparently  conscious 
of  her  task,  came  on.  A  pace  or  two  away,  she  stopped 
and  regarded  the  other  woman  with  a  charming  and 
deprecatory  grace. 

"  Do  guess  who  I  am ! "  she  said,  in  a  delightful  appeal. 
"Peter  Grant  told  you." 

55 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ?  "  returned  Electra,  with  com 
posure.  "  Mr.  Grant  did  speak  of  you." 

Rose  felt  unreasonably  chilled.  However  little  she 
expected,  this  was  less,  in  the  just  civility  that  was  yet 
a  repudiation.  They  went  into  the  library,  where  the 
sun  was  bright  on  rows  of  books,  and  Electra  indicated 
a  seat. 

"Mr.  Grant  told  me  a  very  interesting  thing  about 
you,"  she  volunteered,  with  the  same  air  of  establishing 
a  desirable  atmosphere. 

"Yes,"  said  Rose  rather  eagerly.  She  leaned  for 
ward  a  little,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  parasol  top. 
"  Yes.  I  forbade  him  to  say  any  more.  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  myself." 

Electra's  brows  quivered  perceptibly  at  the  hint  of 
familiar  consultation  with  Peter,  but  she  answered 
with  a  responsive  grace,  — 

"  He  told  me  the  interesting  fact.  It  is  very  interest 
ing  indeed.  We  have  all  followed  your  father's  career 
with  such  attention.  There  is  nothing  like  it." 

"My  father!"  There  was  unconsidered  wonder  in 
her  gaze. 

Electra  smiled  agreeingly. 

"  He  means  just  as  much  to  us  over  here  as  he  does 
to  you  in  France  —  or  England.  Has  n't  he  been  there 
speaking  within  the  month  ?  " 

"  He  is  in  England  now,"  said  Rose  still  wonderingly, 
still  seeking  to  finish  that  phase  and  escape  to  her  own 
requirements. 

"Mr.  Grant  said  you  speak,  at  times." 

"  I  am  sorry  he  said  that,"  Rose  declared,  recovering 
56 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

herself  to  an  unshaded  candor.    "I  shall  never  do  it 
again." 

Electra  was  smiling  very  winningly. 

"Not  over  here?"  she  suggested.  "Not  before  one 
or  two  clubs,  all  women,  you  know,  all  thoughtful,  all 
earnest  ? " 

Rose  answered  coldly,  — 

"  I  am  not  in  sympathy  with  the  ideas  my  father  talks 
about." 

"Not  with  the  Brotherhood!" 

"  Not  as  my  father  talks  about  it."  She  grew  restive. 
Under  Electra 's  impenetrable  courtesy  she  was  commit 
ting  herself  to  declarations  that  had  been,  heretofore, 
sealed  in  her  secret  thought.  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you," 
she  said  desperately,  with  the  winning  pathos  of  a  child 
denied,  "not  about  my  father, — about  other  things." 

"This  is  always  the  way,"  said  Electra  pleasantly, 
with  her  immutable  determination  behind  the  words. 
"He  is  your  father,  and  your  familiarity  makes  you 
indifferent  to  him.  There  are  a  million  things  I  should 
like  to  know  about  Markham  MacLeod,  —  what  he 
eats  and  wears,  almost.  Could  n't  you  tell  me  what  in 
duced  him  —  what  sudden,  vital  thing,  I  mean  —  to 
stop  his  essay- writing  and  found  the  Brotherhood  ?  " 

Rose  answered  coldly,  and  as  if  from  irresistible 
impulse,  — 

"  My  father's  books  never  paid." 

Electra  gazed  at  her,  with  wide-eyed  reproach. 

"  You  don't  give  that  as  a  reason ! " 

Rose  had  recovered  herself  and  remembered  again 
the  things  she  meant  to  leave  untouched. 

57 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  don't  give  it  as  a  reason.  I  only 
give  it." 

Electra  was  looking  at  her,  rebuffed  and  puzzled; 
then  a  ray  shot  through  her  fog. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  would  n't  it  be  one  of  the  inconceiv 
able  things  if  we  who  have  followed  his  work  and  studied 
him  at  a  distance  knew  him  better  than  you  who  have 
had  the  privilege  of  knowing  him  at  first  hand  ?  " 

In  spite  of  herself,  Rose  answered  dryly,  — 

"It  would  be  strange." 

But  Electra  had  not  heard.  There  was  the  sound  of 
wheels  on  the  drive,  and  she  looked  out,  to  see  Madam 
Fulton  alighting. 

"Excuse  me,  one  moment,"  she  said.  "My  grand 
mother  has  come  home  from  town." 

When  Rose  was  alone  in  the  room,  she  put  her  hand 
to  her  throat  to  soothe  its  aching.  There  were  tears  in 
her  eyes.  She  seemed  to  have  attempted  an  impossible 
task.  But  presently  Electra  was  entering  again,  half 
supporting  by  the  arm  a  fragile-looking  old  lady  who 
walked  inflexibly,  as  if  she  resented  that  aid.  Madam 
Fulton  was  always  scrupulous  in  the  appointments  of 
her  person ;  but  this  morning,  with  the  slightly  fagged 
look  about  her  eyes  and  her  careful  bonnet  a  trifle  awry, 
she  disclosed  the  fact  that  she  had  dressed  in  haste  for 
a  train.  But  she  seemed  very  much  alive,  with  the  alert 
responsiveness  of  those  to  whom  interesting  things  have 
happened. 

"  I  want  my  grandmother  to  be  as  surprised  as  I  am," 
Electra  was  saying,  with  her  air  of  social  ease.  "  Grand 
mother,  who  do  you  think  this  is  ?  The  daughter  of 

58 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Markham  MacLeod ! "  She  announced  it  as  if  it  were 
great  news  from  a  quarter  unexplored  and  wonderful. 
Rose  was  on  her  feet,  her  pathetic  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
old  lady's  face.  Madam  Fulton  was  regarding  her  with 
a  frank  interest  it  consoled  her  to  see.  It  was  not,  at 
least,  so  disproportioned. 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  old  lady.  "Well,  your  father 
is  a  remarkable  man.  Electra  here  has  all  his  theories 
by  heart." 

"I  wish  I  had,"  breathed  Electra  with  a  fervency 
calculated  perhaps  to  distract  the  talk  from  other  is 
sues. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  America  ? "  asked  the 
old  lady  civilly,  though  not  sitting  down.  She  had  to 
realize  that  she  was  tired,  that  it  would  be  the  part  of 
prudence  to  escape  to  her  own  room. 

"I  have  just  come,"  said  Rose,  in  a  low,  eloquent 
voice,  its  tones  vibrating  with  her  sense  of  the  unfriend 
liness  that  had  awaited  her. 

"  And  where  are  you  staying  ?  How  did  you  drift  down 
here?" 

"At  Mrs.  Grant's  —  for  the  present."  What  might 
have  been  indignation  warmed  the  words. 

"Grandmother,  you  must  be  tired,"  said  Electra 
affectionately.  "  Let  me  go  to  your  room  with  you,  and 
see  you  settled." 

"  Nonsense ! "  said  the  old  lady  briskly.  "  Nonsense ! 
I  'm  going,  but  I  don't  need  any  help.  Good-by,  Miss 
MacLeod.  I  shall  want  to  see  you  again  when  I  have 
a  head  on  my  shoulders." 

She  had  gone,  and  still  Electra  made  no  sign  of  bid- 
59 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

ding  her  guest  sit  down  again.    Instead,  she  turned  to 
Rose  with  an  engaging  courtesy. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  won't  you  ?  I  ought  to  go  to 
grandmother.  She  is  far  from  strong." 

Rose  answered  quickly,  — 

"  Forgive  me !  I  will  go.  But "  —  she  had  reached 
the  door,  and  paused  there  entreatingly  —  "  when  may 
I  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  Grandmother's  coming  will  keep  me  rather  busy," 
said  Electra,  in  her  brilliant  manner.  "  But  I  shall  take 
great  pleasure  in  returning  your  visit.  Good-by." 

Rose,  walking  fast,  was  out  upon  the  road  again, 
blind  to  everything  save  anger,  against  herself,  against 
the  world.  She  had  come  to  America  upon  an  impulse, 
a  daring  one,  sure  that  here  were  friendliness  and  safety 
such  as  she  had  never  known.  She  had  found  a  hostile 
camp,  and  every  fibre  in  her  thrilled  in  savage  misery. 
Half  way  along  the  distance  home  Peter  came  eagerly 
forward  to  her  from  the  roadside  where  he  had  been 
kicking  his  heels  and  fuming.  The  visit  to  Osmond  had 
not  been  made.  At  the  plantation  gate  he  had  turned 
back,  unable  to  curb  his  desire  to  know  what  had  gone 
on  between  these  two.  At  once  he  read  the  signs  of  her 
distress,  the  angry  red  in  her  cheeks,  the  dilated  eye. 
Even  her  nostrils  seemed  to  breathe  defiance  or  hurt 
pride.  She  spoke  with  unconsidered  bitterness. 

"  I  ought  never  to  have  come." 

"What  was  it?  Tell  me." 

"  It  was  nothing.  I  was  received  as  an  ordinary  caller. 
That  was  all." 

"  Who  received  you  ?  " 

60 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"She.   Electra." 

"What  then?" 

"  I  was  presented  to  her  grandmother  as  my  father's 
daughter,  not  as  her  brother's  —  wife."  She  was  breath 
less  upon  the  word.  All  the  color  went  out  of  her  face. 
She  looked  faint  and  wan. 

"But  it  couldn't  be,"  he  was  repeating.  "Didn't 
you  speak  of  Tom  at  all  ?  " 

"No." 

"Did  n't  she?" 

"No." 

He  essayed  a  bald  and  unreasonable  comfort. 

"There,  you  see!  You  didn't  mention  him,  and 
Electra  hardly  brings  herself  to  do  it  to  any  one.  He 
never  ceased  being  a  trial  to  her.  You  must  let  me  say 
that." 

"  Ah,  that  was  n't  it !  Every  time  I  might  have  spoken, 
a  hand,  a  clever,  skillful  hand  and  cold  as  ice  pushed 
me  away.  I  can  never  speak  of  it.  She  won't  let 
me." 

He  was  with  her,  every  impulse  of  his  eager  heart; 
but  a  tardy  conscience  pulled  him  up,  bidding  him 
remember  that  other  loyalty. 

"  Give  her  time,"  he  pleaded.  "  It 's  a  shock  to  her. 
Perhaps  it  ought  not  to  be ;  but  it  is.  Everything  about 
Tom  has  always  been  a  shock." 

She,  as  well  as  he,  remembered  now  that  they  spoke 
of  Electra,  whose  high-bred  virtues  he  had  extolled  to 
her  in  those  still  evenings  on  their  voyage,  when  her 
courage  failed  her  and  he  had  opened  to  her  the  book 
of  Electra's  truth  and  justice. 

61 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said  wistfully,  "  I  might  stay  at 
your  grandmother's  a  few  days  more  ?  " 

"You  are  to  stay  forever.   Grannie  dotes  upon  you." 

"No!  no!  But  I  shall  have  to  think.  I  shall  have 
to  make  my  plans." 

Again  Peter  felt  yesterday's  brand  of  anger  against 
his  imperial  lady,  or,  he  told  himself  immediately,  the 
unfortunate  circumstances  of  this  misunderstanding. 
"You  run  on,"  he  said.  "  Grannie 's  where  you  left  her. 
If  you  don't  feel  like  talking  you  can  skip  in  at  that 
little  gate  and  the  side  door  up  to  your  room.  I  'm  going 
back  to  see  Electra." 

"You  must  n't  talk  about  me !" 

"  No ! "  He  smiled  at  her  in  a  specious  reassurance, 
and  went  striding  on  over  the  path  by  which  she  had 
come. 

Electra,  in  the  fulfillment  of  her  intention,  had  gone 
scrupulously  to  her  grandmother's  door,  to  ask  if  she 
needed  anything,  and  then,  when  she  had  been  denied, 
returned  to  the  library,  where  she  stood  when  Peter 
appeared  on  the  threshold,  as  if  she  had  been  expecting 
him.  He  did  not  allow  his  good  impulse  to  cool,  but 
hurried  forward  to  her  with  an  abounding  interest  and  a 
certainty  of  finding  it  fulfilled.  As  at  first,  when  he  had 
come  to  her  in  the  garden  the  day  before,  he  uttered  her 
name  eloquently,  and  broke  out  upon  the  heels  of  it,  — 

"  I  did  n't  see  you  all  yesterday,  after  that  first 
minute." 

Electra  looked  at  him  seriously,  and  his  heart  sank. 
Peter  had  been  thinking  straight  thoughts  and  swearing 
by  crude  values  in  these  five  years  when  he  had  lived 

62 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

with  men  and  women  who  said  what  they  meant,  things 
often  foolish  and  outrageous,  but  usually  honest,  and  his 
mind  had  got  a  trick  of  asserting  itself.  None  of  the 
judgments  it  had  been  called  upon  to  make  seemed  to 
matter  vitally;  but  this  one  disconcertingly  did,  and  to 
his  horror  he  found  himself  wondering  if  Electra  could 
possibly  mean  to  be  so  hateful.  Electra  meant  nothing 
of  the  kind.  She  had  a  pure  desire  toward  the  truth, 
and  she  assumed  that  Peter's  desire  tallied  with  her 
own.  She  felt  very  strongly  on  the  point  in  question, 
and  she  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  offer  the 
greatest  hospitality  toward  her  convictions. 

"Peter,"  she  said  at  once,  "you  must  not  talk  to  me 
about  that  woman." 

"So  she  said,"  Peter  was  on  the  point  of  irresistibly 
retorting,  but  he  contented  himself  with  the  weak  make 
shift  that  at  least  gains  time,  — 

"What  woman?" 

"Markham  MacLeod's  daughter." 

"  Tom's  wife  ?  Tom's  widow  ?  " 

Electra  looked  at  him  in  definite  reproof. 

"You  must  not  do  that,  Peter,"  she  warned  him. 
"You  must  not  speak  of  her  in  that  way." 

"  For  God's  sake,  why  not,  Electra  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  her  title.   You  must  not  give  it  to  her." 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  number  of  seconds,  while  she 
met  his  gaze  inflexibly.  Then  his  face  broke  up,  as  if 
a  hand  had  struck  it.  Light  and  color  came  into  it,  and 
his  mouth  trembled. 

"Electra,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  want  me  to  under 
stand?" 

63 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"You  do  understand  it,  Peter,"  she  said  quietly.  "I 
can  hardly  think  you  will  force  me  to  state  it  explicitly." 

"  You  can't  mean  it !  no,  you  can't.  You  must  n't 
imply  things,  Electra.  You  imply  she  was  not  married 
to  him." 

Still  Electra  was  looking  at  him  with  that  high  de 
meanor  which,  he  felt  with  exasperation,  seemed  to  make 
great  demands  upon  him  of  a  sort  that  implied  assump 
tions  he  must  despise. 

"This  is  very  difficult  for  me,"  she  was  saying,  and 
Peter  at  once  possessed  himself  of  one  passive  hand. 

"  Of  course  it  is  difficult,"  he  cried  warmly.  "  I  told 
her  so.  I  told  her  everything  connected  with  Tom 
always  was  difficult.  She  knows  that  as  well  as  we 
do." 

"  Have  you  talked  him  over  with  her  ? "  The  tone  was 
neutral,  yet  it  chilled  him. 

"  Good  Lord,  yes !  We  've  done  nothing  but  talk  him 
over  from  an  outside  point  of  view.  When  she  wras  de 
ciding  whether  to  come  here,  whether  to  write  you  or 
just  present  herself  as  she  has  —  of  course  Tom's  name 
came  into  it.  She  was  Tom's  wife,  was  n't  she  ?  Tom's 
widow  ?  " 

"  No !  no ! "  said  Electra,  in  a  low  and  vehement 
denial.  "  She  was  not."  Peter  blazed  so  that  he  seemed 
to  tower  like  a  long  thin  guidepost  showing  the  way  to 
anger.  "I  said  the  same  thing  yesterday." 

"  That  was  before  you  saw  her.  It  means  more  now, 
infinitely  more." 

"I  hope  it  does." 

"Think  what  you're  saying,  Electra,"  he  said  vio- 
64 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

lently,  so  that  she  lifted  her  hand  slightly,  as  if  to  re 
prove  him.    "You  refuse  to  receive  her — " 

"  I  have  received  her,  —  as  her  father's  daughter.  I 
may  even  do  so  again." 

"  But  not  as  your  sister  ?  " 

"That  would  be  impossible.  You  must  see  it  is  im 
possible,  feeling  as  I  do." 

"  But  how,  how  ?  You  imply  things  that  dizzy  me, 
and  then,  when  it  comes  to  the  pinch,  I  can't  get  a  sane 
word  out  of  you."  That  seemed  to  him,  as  to  her,  an 
astonishing  form  of  address  to  an  imperial  lady,  and 
he  added  at  once,  "Forgive  me!"  But  he  continued 
irrepressibly,  "Electra,  you  can't  mean  you  doubt  her 
integrity." 

She  had  her  counter  question :  — 

"  Did  you  see  them  married  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  heavens,  no !  Why,  I  did  n't  come  on  Tom 
in  Paris  until  his  illness.  Tom  never  had  any  use  for  me. 
You  know  that.  Meantime  he  'd  been  there  a  couple  of 
years,  into  the  mire  and  out  again,  and  he'd  had  time 
to  be  married  to  Rose,  and  she  'd  had  time  to  leave  him." 

"Ah,  she  left  him!  Why?" 

"Why  did  you  leave  him,  Electra,  before  he  went 
over  there  ?  Why  did  you  give  up  living  in  town,  and 
simply  retreat  down  here  ?  You  could  n't  stand  it. 
Nobody  could.  Tom  was  a  bad  egg,  Electra.  I  don't 
need  to  tell  you  that." 

"It  is  certainly  painful  for  me  to  hear  it." 

"But  why,  why,  Electra?  I  can't  stultify  myself  to 
prove  this  poor  girl  an  adventuress.  I  can't  canonize 
Tom  Fulton,  not  even  if  you  ask  me." 

65 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"There  are  things  we  need  not  recur  to.  My  brother 
is  dead,"  said  Electra,  with  dignity. 

"  Yes.  That 's  precisely  why  I  am  asking  you  to  pro 
vide  for  his  widow." 

"Suppose,  then,  this  were  true.  Suppose  she  is  what 
you  say,  —  don't  you  feel  she  forfeited  anything  by 
leaving  him?" 

"  Ah,  but  she  went  back,  poor  girl !  She  went  back  to 
him  when  he  was  pretty  well  spent  with  sickness  and 
sheer  fright.  Tom  did  n't  die  like  a  hero,  Electra.  Get 
that  out  of  your  mind." 

She  put  up  both  hands  in  an  unconsidered  protest. 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  use ! "  she  cried ;  and  his  heart  smote 
him. 

"  None  at  all,"  he  answered.  "  But  I  mean  to  show  you 
that  this  girl  did  n't  walk  back  to  any  dead  easy  job 
when  she  undertook  Tom." 

"Why  did  she  do  it?" 

"  Why  ?  From  humanity,  justice,  honor,  I  suppose, 
the  things  that  influence  women  when  they  stick  to  their 
bad  bargains." 

"  Where  had  she  been  meantime  ?  " 

"With  her  father,  in  lodgings.  That  was  where  I 
met  her." 

"  Was  she  known  by  my  brother's  name  ?  " 

"No,"  he  hesitated,  "not  then.  I  knew  her  as  Miss 
MacLeod." 

"Ah!" 

"I  can  see  why,"  Peter  declared,  with  an  eager  em 
phasis.  "I  never  thought  of  it  before,  but  can't  you 
see  ?  I  should  think  a  woman  could,  at  least.  The  whole 

66 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

situation  was  probably  so  distasteful  to  her  that  she 
threw  off  even  his  name." 

"  And  assumed  it  after  his  death ! " 

"  No !  no !  She  was  called  Madame  Fulton  at  his 
apartment.  I  distinctly  remember  that." 

They  had  been  immovably  facing  each  other,  but  now 
Electra  turned  away  and  walked  back  to  the  library 
table,  where  she  stood  resting  one  hand  and  waiting, 
pale  and  tired,  yet  unchanged.  This  seemed  to  her 
one  of  the  times  that  try  men's  souls,  but  wherein  a 
New  England  conscience  must  abide  by  its  tradi 
tions. 

"  How  long  does  she  propose  remaining  ? "  she  asked, 
out  of  her  desire  to  put  some  limit  to  the  distasteful 
situation,  though  she  had  forbidden  herself  to  enter  it 
with  even  that  human  interest. 

"  Why,  as  long  as  we  ask  her  to  stay,  —  you,  or,  if  she 
is  not  to  expect  anything  from  you,  I.  She  has  nothing 
of  her  own,  poor  girl." 

"  Has  her  father  repudiated  her  ?  That  ought  to  tell 
something." 

Peter  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said  in  an 
engaging  honesty,  bound  as  it  was  to  hurt  his  own 
cause,  — 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  understand  their  relation 
altogether.  Rose  gives  no  opinions,  but  I  fancy  she  is 
not  in  sympathy  with  him." 

"Yes,  I  fancied  so." 

"  But  we  must  n't  fancy  so.  We  must  n't  get  up  an 
atmosphere  and  look  through  it  till  we  see  distorted 
facts." 

67 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Those  are  what  I  want,  Peter,  facts.  If  Miss  Mac 
Leod—" 

"  Do  you  mean  you  won't  even  give  her  your  brother's 
name  ? " 

"  Even,  Peter !   What  could  be  more  decisive  ?  " 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  introduce  her  as  Miss  Mac 
Leod  ?  Do  you  expect  me  to  call  her  so  ?" 

"I  fancied  you  called  her  Rose." 

"I  did.  I  do.  I  began  it  in  those  unspeakable  days 
when  Tom  went  out  of  his  head  with  fright  and  fever 
and  we  held  him  down  in  bed.  Electra!" 

She  was  listening. 

"  Was  that  grandmother  calling  ?  "  she  asked,  though 
grandmother  never  yet  had  summoned  her  for  com 
panionship  or  service.  But  Electra  felt  her  high  de 
corum  failing  her.  She  was  tired  with  the  impact  of 
emotion,  and  it  was  a  part  of  her  creed  never  to  confess 
to  weakness.  She  had  snatched  at  the  slight  subter 
fuge  as  if  it  were  a  sustaining  draught.  "  I  am  afraid  1 
must  go." 

"  Electra ! "  He  placed  himself  before  her  with  out 
stretched  hands.  Very  simple  emotions  were  talking  in 
him.  They  told  him  that  this  was  the  second  day  of 
his  return,  that  he  was  her  lover,  and  he  had  not  kissed 
her.  And  they  told  him  also,  to  his  sheer  fright  and  be 
wilderment,  that  he  did  not  want  to  kiss  her.  All  he 
could  ineffectually  do  was  to  reiterate,  "We  can't  go 
on  like  this.  Nothing  in  the  world  is  worth  it."  Yet 
while  he  said  it,  he  knew  there  was  one  thing  at  least 
infinitely  worth  while :  to  right  the  wrongs  of  a  beauti 
ful  and  misjudged  lady.  Only  it  was  necessary,  ap- 

68 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

parently,  for  the  present,  to  keep  the  lady  out  of  the 

question. 

Electra  was  listening. 

"  It  is  grandmother,"  she  said  recklessly.  "  I  must  go." 

There  was  a  rustle  up  the  staircase,  and  he  was  alone 

in  the  library,  to  take  himself  home  as  he  might. 


VI 

AFTER  a  week  Electra  had  made  no  sign  toward 
acceptance  of  the  unbidden  guest.  She  received 
Peter  sweetly  and  kindly  whenever  he  went  to  see  her, 
but  he  felt  they  were  very  far  apart.  Something  had 
been  destroyed ;  the  bubble  of  pleasure  was  broken  and, 
as  it  seemed,  for  good  and  all.  He  strove  to  find  his 
way  back  into  their  lost  dream  and  take  her  with  him ; 
but  there  was  no  visible  path.  Rose  spared  him  ques 
tions.  She  stayed  gratefully  on,  and  grannie  was  de 
lighted  with  her.  Rose  had  such  a  way  of  fitting  into 
circumstance  that  it  seemed  an  entirely  natural  thing 
to  have  her  there,  and  Peter  forgot  to  wonder  even  at 
the  pleasure  of  it.  Twice  she  came  in  from  a  walk  pale 
and  inexplicably  excited,  and  he  knew  she  had  been 
besieging  the  scornful  lady  in  the  other  house.  But 
she  kept  her  counsel.  She  had  never  seen  Osmond  since 
her  coming,  though  she  knew  he  and  Peter  had  long 
talks  together  at  the  plantation. 

One  night,  a  cold,  unseasonable  one,  Osmond  was 
alone  in  the  shack,  his  room  unlighted  save  by  the  flaring 
wood.  The  cabin  had  a  couch,  two  chairs,  and  a  big 
table,  this  covered  with  books.  There  were  books  on 
the  wall,  and  the  loft  above,  where  he  slept  when  he  was 
not  in  his  neighboring  tent,  made  a  balcony,  taking  half 
the  room.  He  was  in  his  long  chair  stretched  among 
the  shadows,  his  face  lighted  intermittently  from  the 
fire.  He  was  thinking  deeply,  his  black  brows  drawn 

70 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

together,  his  nervous  hands  gripped  on  the  elbows  of  the 
chair.  There  was  a  slight  tap  at  the  door.  He  did  not 
heed  it,  being  used  to  mice  among  the  logs  and  birds 
twittering  overhead.  Then  the  door  opened,  and  a  lady 
came  in.  Osmond  half  rose  from  his  chair,  and  leaning 
forward,  looked  at  her.  He  knew  her,  and  yet  strangely 
he  had  no  belief  that  she  was  real.  It  was  Rose,  a  long 
cloak  about  her,  the  hood  slipped  back  from  her  rich 
hair.  Her  face  was  flushed  by  the  buffeting  of  the  wind, 
and  its  moist  sweetness  tingled  with  health.  It  was  ap 
parent  to  him  at  once  that,  as  he  was  looking  at  her  in 
the  firelight,  she  also  had  fixed  his  face  in  the  gloom. 
She  was  smiling  at  him,  and  her  eyes  were  kind.  Then 
she  spoke. 

"I  came  to  see  you,  Mr.  Osmond  Grant." 

Osmond  was  now  upon  his  feet.  He  drew  a  chair  into 
the  circle  of  light. 

"  Let  me  take  your  cloak,"  he  said.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  no  such  exciting  thing  had  ever  happened. 

"No,  no.  It  is  n't  wet."  She  tossed  it  on  the  bench 
by  the  door,  and  having  put  both  hands  to  her  hair  with 
the  reassuring  touch  that  is  pretty  in  women,  she  turned 
to  him,  a  radiant  creature  smiling  out  of  her  black 
drapery.  "But  I'll  sit  down,"  she  said. 

The  next  moment,  he  hardly  knew  how  it  was,  they 
were  there  by  the  fire,  and  he  had  accepted  her.  She  was 
beautiful  and  wonderful,  a  thing  to  be  worshiped,  and 
he  lost  not  a  minute  in  telling  himself  he  worshiped  her, 
and  that  he  was  going  to  do  it  while  he  was  man  and 
she  was  woman,  or  after  his  clay  had  lost  its  spirit. 
Osmond  had  very  little  time  to  think  of  his  soul,  because 

71 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

he  worked  all  day  in  the  open  and  slept  hard  at  night ; 
but  it  always  seemed  to  him  reasonable  that  he  had  one. 
Now  it  throbbed  up,  invincible,  and  he  looked  at  the 
lady  and  wondered  again  at  her.  The  lady  was  smiling 
at  him. 

"I  wanted  to  meet  you,"  she  said,  in  her  soft,  per 
suasive  voice.  "  You  don't  come  to  the  house  any  more." 

He  answered  her  simply  and  calmly,  with  no  token  of 
his  inward  turmoil. 

"  I  have  n't  been  there  for  some  days." 

"  Is  it  because  I  am  there  ?  " 

"  Grannie  has  n't  needed  me." 

"  Is  it  because  I  am  there  ?  " 

Then  he  smiled  at  her,  with  a  gleam  of  white  teeth 
and  lighted  eyes. 

"I've  been  a  little  afraid  of  you,"  he  owned. 

"Well,  you're  not  now?" 

"  No,  I  'm  not  now." 

"That's  what  I  came  here  for."  She  settled  more 
snugly  into  the  chair,  and  folded  her  hands  on  her  knee. 
He  looked  at  them  curiously,  their  slender  whiteness, 
and  noted,  with  interest,  that  she  had  no  wedding  ring. 
She  continued,  "  I  got  breathless  in  the  house.  Grand 
mother  was  tired  and  went  to  bed.  Peter  has  gone  to 
see  his  cruel  lady." 

"Why  do  you  call  her  cruel?" 

"She  won't  hold  out  her  hand  to  me." 

That  simple  and  audacious  candor  overwhelmed  him. 
He  had  never  known  anything  so  facile  yet  direct.  It 
made  life  incredibly  picturesque  and  full  of  color.  He 
laughed  from  light-heartedness,  and  it  came  into  his 

72 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

head  that,  in  her  company,  it  would  be  easy  to  believe 
"as  many  as  six  impossible  things  before  breakfast." 
But  she  was  continuing :  — 

"Don't  you  find  her  cruel?" 

"  Electra  ?  We  have  n't  exchanged  a  dozen  words  in 
a  year." 

"Why  not?" 

"I'm  not  a  notability.  It's  not  remarkable  to  raise 
seeds  for  sale." 

"But  is  n't  she  cruel?" 

He  thought  a  moment,  and  then  answered  gravely,  — 

"  She  is  very  opinionated.  But  she  has  high  ideals. 
She  would  be  unyielding.  Has  she  been  unyielding  to 
you?" 

"Hasn't  Peter  told  you?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"  I  came  here  expecting  her  to  accept  me  as  her  bro 
ther's  wife.  She  won't  do  it." 

"  Won't  do  it  ?   Does  she  say  so  ?  " 

"  She  says  nothing.  But  she  ignores  me."  Her  cheek 
took  on  a  deeper  flush.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  and  he 
followed  her  gaze  into  the  coals. 

"  You  are  too  proud  to  give  her  proofs  ?  "  he  hesitated. 

She  stirred  uneasily  in  her  chair. 

"Proud!"  she  said  bitterly.  "If  I  had  been  proud, 
I  should  never  have  come  here  at  all.  But  I  am  here, 
and  she  must  recognize  me."  Some  dauntless  lines  had 
come  into  the  delicate  face  and  made  it  older.  "It  is 
absurd,"  she  continued,  "worse.  Here  am  I  living  in 
your  house  —  " 

"No!  no!"  he  corrected  her.  "Not  that  it  matters. 
73 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

It  would  be  yours  just  the  same.    But  it's  grannie's 
house." 

"  Taking  her  hospitality,  —  oh,  it 's  a  shame !  a 
shame!" 

"  Peter  must  make  it  right  with  Electra,"  he  ventured. 

"Peter!  He  has  tried.  He  has  tried  too  much.  Things 
are  not  right  between  them  any  more.  I  know  that." 

Osmond,  almost  with  no  conscious  will,  went  back 
to  what  he  had  been  thinking  when  she  came  in. 

"  Peter  belongs  to  your  Brotherhood  —  " 

"  Don't  say  mine.  It  is  my  father's."  She  spoke  with 
an  unguarded  warmth. 

"  But  you  belong  to  it,  too." 

"I  used  to.  I  used  to  do  everything  my  father  told 
me  to  —  but  not  now  —  not  now ! "  She  looked  like  a 
beautiful  rebel,  the  color  deepened  in  her  cheeks,  her 
eyes  darkening. 

Osmond  could  not  question  her,  but  he  went  back  to 
his  own  puzzle. 

"  The  trouble  is  —  about  Peter  —  his  painting  has 
taken  a  back  seat.  He  talks  about  the  Brotherhood  — 
little  else." 

She  nodded,  looking  at  the  fire. 

"I  know.   I  know." 

"  I  Ve  no  objection  to  his  believing  in  the  brotherhood 
of  man ;  but  can't  the  brotherhood  of  man  be  preserved 
if  we  paint  our  pictures,  and  mind  our  own  business 
generally  ?  " 

"  Not  while  my  father  leads  the  procession.  He  will 
have  no  other  gods  before  him." 

"Tell  me  about  your  father." 
74 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

She  turned  on  him  a  face  suddenly  irradiated  by  fun. 
An  unexpected  dimple  came  to  light,  and  Osmond's 
pulse  responded  to  it. 

"Electra,"  she  said,  "found  time  to  propose  that  I 
should  give  a  little  talk  on  my  father.  Last  night  I  lay 
awake  rehearsing  it.  Do  you  want  to  hear  it  ?  Markham 
MacLeod  is  the  chief  of  spoilers.  He  preaches  the  bro 
therhood  of  man,  and  he  gets  large  perquisites.  He  deals 
with  enormous  issues.  Kingdoms  and  principalities  are 
under  his  foot  because  the  masses  are  his  servitors. 
Money  is  always  flowing  through  his  hands.  He  does 
not  divert  it,  but  it  has,  with  the  cheerful  consent  of 
his  followers,  to  take  him  from  place  to  place,  to  shed 
his  influence,  to  pay  his  hotel  bills  —  and  he  must  live 
well,  mind  you.  For  he  has  to  speak.  He  has  to  lead. 
He  is  a  vessel  of  the  Lord."  She  had  talked  on  unhesi 
tatingly,  straight  into  the  fire.  Now,  when  she  paused, 
Osmond  commented  involuntarily,  — 

"  How  well  you  speak."  Then  as  quickly,  "  Does  your 
father  know  you  think  these  things  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  have  not  had  occasion  to  tell 
him.  Not  yet !  But  about  Peter."  She  faced  round  at 
him.  "  Peter  is  hypnotized  by  my  father,  as  they  all  are 
in  the  beginning.  He  won't  paint  any  more  portraits 
while  the  spell  lasts." 

"Then  he  won't  get  Electra." 

"  He  won't  get  her  anyway,  —  not  if  he  champions 
me.  That's  my  impression." 

"  But  what  does  your  father  want  him  to  do  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  that  I  know.  It  is  n't  that  he  chokes 
people  off  from  other  channels.  It's  just  that  his  yoke 

75 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

is  heavy,  for  one  thing,  and  that  they  can't  do  too  much 
for  him.  Peter  has  taken  him  literally.  He  will  sell  all 
he  has  and  give  to  the  poor,  and  live  on  a  crust.  He'll 
think  the  chief,  too,  is  doing  it ;  but  he  '11  be  mistaken. 
The  chief  never  denied  himself  so  much  as  an  oyster  in 
his  life." 

They  sat  staring  at  each  other,  in  the  surprise  of  such 
full  speech.  Osmond  had  a  sense  of  communion  he  had 
never  known.  Peter  and  he  had  talked  freely  of  many 
things  in  the  last  week,  but  here  was  a  strange  yet  a 
familiar  being  to  whom  the  wells  of  life  were  at  once 
unlocked.  The  girl's  face  broke  up  into  laughter. 

"  Is  n't  it  funny  ?  "  she  interjected,  "  our  talking  like 
this?" 

"Yes.  Why  are  we  doing  it?"  He  waited,  with  a 
curious  excitement,  for  her  answer.  But  she  had  gone, 
darting  at  a  tangent  on  what,  he  was  to  find,  were  her 
graceful  escapes  when  it  wras  simpler  to  go  that  way. 

"  It 's  very  mysterious  here,"  she  said,  glancing  about 
the  cabin,  "very  dark  and  strange." 

"  Shall  I  throw  on  more  wood  ? " 

"  If  you  like.    I  am  not  cold." 

But  he  did  not  do  it. 

"You  don't  speak  like  a  Frenchwoman,"  he  ven 
tured. 

"  I  am  not.  You  know  that.   I  am  an  American." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  have  lived  in  France." 

"  Always,  since  I  was  twelve.  But  I  have  known  plenty 
of  English,  —  Americans,  too.  Shall  I  speak  to  you  in 
French?" 

He  deprecated  it,  with  hands  outspread. 
76 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  No,  no.  I  read  it,  by  myself.  I  could  n't  under 
stand  it,  spoken." 

She  was  smiling  at  him  radiantly,  and  with  the  inno 
cent  purpose,  even  he,  in  his  ecstasy,  felt,  of  making 
herself  more  beautiful  and  more  kind. 

"Now,"  she  was  saying,  "since  we  have  met,  you'll 
come  to  the  house?  You  won't  let  me  stand  in  the 
way  ?  " 

His  tongue  was  dry  in  his  mouth.  He  felt  the  beauty 
of  her,  the  pang  of  seeing  anything  so  sweet  and  having 
only  the  memory  of  it.  Great  instincts  surged  up  in  him 
with  longings  that  were  only  pain.  They  seemed  to 
embrace  all  things,  the  primal  founts  of  life,  the  loy 
alties,  devotions,  hopes,  and  tragedies.  At  last  he  under 
stood,  not  with  his  pulses  only,  but  his  soul.  And  all  the 
time  he  had  not  answered  her.  She  was  still  looking  at 
him,  smiling  kindly  now,  and,  he  believed,  not  cognizant 
of  the  terror  in  his  heart,  not  advertising  her  beauty  as 
at  first  he  had  supposed.  She  seemed  a  friend  home 
from  long  absence.  He  was  speaking,  and  his  voice,  in 
his  effort,  sounded  to  him  reassuringly  gentle. 

"We '11  see." 

"You  will  come?" 

"We '11  see." 

"  Good-night."  She  wrapped  her  cloak  about  her 
and  was  gone. 

He  followed  her  to  the  door  only,  and  heard  her  feet 
upon  the  spongy  turf.  With  his  impulse  to  follow  farther 
walked  the  sane  certainty  that  he  ought  not  to  let  her 
find  her  way  alone,  even  along  that  friendly  road.  But 
he  could  not  do  it.  The  rain  had  ceased,  and  there  was 

77 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

a  moist  wind  blowing  in  little  temperate  gusts,  as  if  it 
ran  over  the  land  and  gave  it  something,  and  then  took 
brooding  interval  for  another  breath.  He  looked  up  to 
heaven,  and  in  the  nebulous  cloud  reaches  found  a  star. 
So  seemed  the  creature  who  had  dawned  in  his  dark 
room  and  lighted  it :  inaccessible,  unchangingly  bright, 
and,  if  one  rashly  approached  her,  armed  with  a  de 
stroying  fire. 

He  went  out  and  sat  down  upon  the  bench  at  his  door, 
turning  to  lean  his  forehead  against  the  rough  casing. 
What  had  happened  to  him?  He  did  not  even  own  it 
was  the  thing  that  happens  to  all,  the  unassuageable 
longing,  the  reaching  hand  for  a  mate.  He  had  felt  safe 
in  his  garden  ground,  where  no  blossoms  opened  but 
innocent  velvet  ones,  temperately,  to  ripen  and  then  die. 
But  now  the  portals  of  the  world  were  wide.  He  saw 
beauty,  and  it  roused  him  to  a  rage  of  worship.  As  the 
night  went  on,  he  grew  calmer.  Sweet  beliefs,  a  holier 
certainty  stole  into  that  ecstasy  of  meeting.  She  seemed 
again,  as  she  had  in  one  moment  of  her  stay,  a  dear 
friend  happily  returned.  The  sense  of  her  familiarity 
was  as  convincing  as  if  he  had  known  her  all  his  life.  It 
was  not  recognition  alone :  it  was  reunion. 


VII 

OSMOND  tried  to  cease  thinking  of  the  beautiful 
lady  until  his  mind  should  be  more  at  ease,  and 
to  consider  Peter,  who  was  acting  like  a  changeling.  It 
seemed  possible  that  he  might  have  to  meet  his  boy 
bravely,  even  sharply,  with  denial  and  admonition. 
Peter,  he  knew,  had  deliberately  put  his  wonderful  gift 
in  his  pocket,  and  under  some  glamour  of  new  desire 
was  forgetting  pictures  and  playing  at  the  love  of  man. 
Playing  at  it  ?  Osmond  did  not  know ;  but  everything 
seemed  play  to  him  in  the  divergences  of  a  man  who 
had  a  gift  and  stinted  using  it.  If  Osmond  had  had  any 
gift  at  all,  he  knew  how  different  it  would  have  made 
his  life.  A  tragedy  of  the  flesh  would  have  been  slighter 
to  a  man  who  felt  the  surge  of  fancy  in  the  brain.  He  had 
nothing,  at  the  outset,  but  a  faltering  will  and  a  deep 
distaste  for  any  task  within  his  reach.  He  remembered 
well  the  day  when  he  first  found  Peter  had  that  aptitude 
for  painting,  and  realized,  with  the  clarity  of  great  re- 
vealings,  what  it  meant  to  them  both.  All  through  his 
boyhood  Peter  had  been  drawing,  with  a  facile  hand, 
caricatures,  fleeting  hints  of  homely  life,  but  always 
likenesses.  One  day  he  came  home  from  the  post-office 
in  a  gust  of  rapture.  A  series  of  random  sketches  had 
been  accepted  by  a  journal.  From  that  time  the  steps 
had  led  always  upward,  and  Osmond  climbed  them  with 
him.  But  the  day  itself  —  Osmond  remembered  the 

79 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

June  fervor  of  it  when,  after  a  word  or  two  to  the  boy, 
surprising  to  Peter  in  its  coldness,  he  went  away  alone 
and  threw  himself  under  an  apple  tree,  his  face  in  the 
grass,  to  realize  what  had  come.  His  own  life  up  to  this 
time  had  seemed  to  him  so  poor  that  the  hint  of  riches 
dazzled  him.  He  saw  the  golden  gleam,  not  of  money, 
but  of  the  wealth  of  being.  Peter  had  the  gift,  but  they 
would  both  foster  it.  Peter  should  sleep  softly  and  live 
well.  He  should  have  every  luxurious  aid,  and  to  that 
end  Osmond  would  learn  to  wring  out  money  from  the 
ground.  That  was  his  only  possibility,  since  he  must 
have  an  outdoor  life.  Then  he  began  his  market-garden 
ing.  Grandmother  was  with  him  always.  She  even  sold 
a  piece  of  land  for  present  money  to  put  into  men  and 
tools,  and  the  boy  began.  At  first  there  were  only  vege 
tables  to  be  carried  to  the  market;  then  the  scheme 
broadened  into  plants  and  seeds.  He  was  working 
passionately,  and  so  on  honor,  and  his  works  were 
wanted.  To  his  grandmother  even  he  made  no  real 
confidence,  but  she  still  walked  with  him  like  a  spirit 
of  the  earth  itself.  He  knew,  as  he  grew  older,  how  she 
had  drained  herself  for  him,  how  she  had  tended  him 
and  lived  Jhe  hardiest  life  with  him  because  he  needed 
it.  There  were  six  months  of  several  years  when  she 
took  him  to  the  deep  woods,  and  they  camped,  and  she 
did  tasks  his  heart  bled  to  think  of,  as  he  grew  up,  and 
looked  at  her  work-worn  hands ;  but  those  things  which 
bound  them  indissolubly  were  never  spoken  of  between 
them.  His  infirmity  was  never  mentioned  save  once 
when,  a  boy,  and  then  delicate,  he  came  in  from  the 
knoll  where  he  had  been  watching  the  woodsmen  felling 

80 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

trees.  His  face  was  terrible  to  her,  but  she  went  on 
getting  their  dinner  and  did  not  speak. 

"Grannie,"  he  said  at.  last,  "what  am  I  going  to 
do?" 

She  paused  over  her  fire,  and  turned  her  face  to  him, 
flushed  with  heat  and  warm  with  mother  love. 

"Sonny,"  she  said,  "we  will  do  the  will  of  God." 

"Did  He  do  this  to  me?"  the  boy  asked  inflexibly. 

She  looked  at  the  mountain  beyond  the  lake,  whence, 
she  knew,  her  strength  came  hourly. 

"The  world  is  His,"  she  said.  "He  does  everything. 
We  can't  find  out  why.  We  must  help  Him.  We  must 
ask  Him  to  help  us  do  His  will." 

Then  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  and  the  boy,  strength 
ening  his  own  savage  will,  forced  himself  to  eat. 

He  did  not  think  so  much  about  the  ways  of  God  as 
shrewdly,  when  he  grew  older,  of  toughening  muscles 
and  hardening  flesh.  Peter's  talents,  Peter's  triumphs, 
became  a  kind  of  possession  with  him.  Osmond  had 
perhaps  his  first  taste  of  happiness  when  Peter  went 
abroad,  and  Osmond  knew  who  had  sent  him  and  who, 
if  the  market-garden  throve,  had  sworn  to  keep  him 
there.  The  allowance  he  provided  Peter  thereafter  gave 
him  as  much  pleasure  in  the  making  as  it  did  the  boy  in 
the  using  of  it.  Peter  was  like  one  running  an  easy  race, 
not  climbing  the  difficult  steps  that  lead  to  greatness. 
It  looked,  at  times,  as  if  it  were  the  richness  of  his  gift 
that  made  his  work  seem  play,  —  not  Osmond's  foster 
ing.  But  now,  coming  home  to  more  triumphs,  Peter 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  goal. 

He  found  Osmond  one  morning  resting  under  the 
81 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

apple  tree,  his  chosen  shade.  Peter  strode  up  to  the  spot 
moodily,  angrily  even,  his  picturesque  youth  well  set 
off  by  the  ease  of  his  clothes.  Osmond  watched  him  com 
ing  and  approved  of  him  without  condition,  because  he 
saw  in  him  so  many  kinds  of  mastery.  Peter  gave  him 
a  nod,  and  threw  himself  and  his  hat  on  the  grass,  at 
wide  interval.  He  quoted  some  Latin  to  the  effect  that 
Osmond  was  enjoying  the  ease  of  his  dignified  state. 

"I've  been  up  and  at  it  since  light,"  said  Osmond, 
smiling  at  him.  "  You  don't  know  when  sun-up  is." 

Peter  rolled  over  and  studied  the  grass. 

"Are  you  coming  up  to  see  Rose?"  he  asked  pre 
sently. 

Osmond  could  not  tell  him  Rose  had  been  to  see  him. 

"I  might,"  he  said,  remembering  her  requisition. 

"Come  soon.  Maybe  you  could  put  an  oar  in.  She 
needs  help,  poor  girl ! " 

"Help  to  Electra's  favor?" 

Peter  nodded  into  the  grass. 

"You  could  do  it  better  than  I.  You  can  do  every 
thing  better.  You  must  n't  forget,  Pete,  that  you  're  the 
Fortunate  Youth." 

There  was  something  wistful  in  his  tone.  It  stirred 
in  Peter  old  loyalties,  old  responses,  and  he  immediately 
wrondered  what  Osmond  wanted  of  him  that  was  not 
expressed.  Osmond  had  made  no  emotional  demands 
upon  him,  as  to  his  profession,  but  Peter  always  had  a 
sense  that  his  brother  was  sitting  by,  watching  the  boiling 
of  the  pot.  This  was  a  cheerful  companionship  when  the 
pot  was  active;  not  now,  as  it  cooled.  He  threw  out  a 
commonplace  at  random,  from  his  uneasy  consciousness, 

82 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  Art  is  n't  the  biggest  thing,  old  boy." 

"What  is?" 

Now  Peter  rolled  over  again,  and  regarded  him  with 
glowing  eyes.  To  Osmond,  who  was  beginning  to  know 
his  temperament  better  than  he  had  known  it  in  all  the 
years  of  the  lad's  journey  upon  an  upward  track,  that 
glance  told  of  remembered  phrases  and  a  dominating 
personality  that  had  made  the  phrases  stick. 

"It's  to  give  one  man  who  works  with  his  hands 
fresher  air  to  breathe,  fewer  hours'  work,  a  better  bed." 

"You're  an  artist,  Pete.   Don't  forget  that." 

"  I  don't.    But  it  is  n't  the  biggest  thing." 

"  If  you  should  paint  a  picture  for  that  workingman 
to  look  at  while  he  says  his  prayers  ?  what  then  ?  " 

"You  don't  understand,  Osmond,"  said  the  boy. 
"  Labor !  Labor  is  the  question  of  the  day." 

Osmond  looked  over  at  a  field  of  seedlings  where 
five  men  with  bent  backs  were  weeding  and  where  he 
himself  had  been  bending  until  now.  He  smiled  a  little. 

"I  understand  work,  boy,"  he  said  gently.  "Only  I 
can't  make  hot  distinctions.  The  workingman  is  as 
sacred  to  me  as  you  are,  and  you  are  as  sacred  as  the 
workingman." 

Peter  was  making  little  nosegays  of  grass  and  weeds, 
and  laying  them  in  methodical  rows. 

"I  can't  paint,  Osmond,"  he  said  abruptly.  "These 
things  are  just  crowding  me." 

"What  things?" 

"Capital.   Labor." 

Osmond  was  silent  a  long  time  because  he  had  too 
many  things  to  say,  all  of  them  impossible.  He  felt  hot 

83 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

tears  in  his  eyes  from  a  passion  of  revolt  against  the 
lad's  wastefulness.  He  felt  the  shame  of  such  squan 
dering.  To  him,  all  the  steps  in  the  existence  by  which 
his  own  being  had  been  preserved  meant  thrift  and  pen 
ury.  He  had  conserved  every  energy.  He  had  lived 
wholesomely,  not  only  for  months,  but  unremittingly 
for  years.  His  only  indulgences  had  been  the  brave 
temperate  ones  of  air  and  sleep ;  and  with  their  aid  he 
had  built  up  in  himself  the  strength  of  the  earth.  And 
here  was  a  creature  whose  clay  was  shot  through  with 
all  the  tingling  fires  of  life,  whose  hand  carried  witchery, 
whose  brain  and  eye  were  spiritual  satellites,  and  he 
talked  about  painting  by  and  by. 

"  What  a  hold  that  man  has  on  you ! "  he  breathed 
involuntarily. 

Peter  swept  his  little  green  nosegays  into  confusion 
and  sat  up.  His  eyes  were  brilliant. 

"  Not  the  man,"  he  said.  "  It 's  not  the  man.  It 's  the 
facts  behind  him." 

Osmond's  thought  flew  back  to  one  night,  and  a  girl's 
reckless  picture  of  her  father.  It  seemed  now  like  a 
dream,  yet  it  swayed  him. 

"  What  can  you  do  for  him  ? "  he  asked,  forcing  him 
self  to  a  healthy  ruthlessness.  "  What  have  you  done  ?  " 

"For  Markham  MacLeod?  Nothing.  What  could  I 
do  for  him  ?  He  has  done  everything  for  me." 

"What,  Pete?" 

"  Opened  my  eyes.  Made  me  realize  the  brotherhood 
of  man.  Why,  see  here,  Osmond!" 

Osmond  watched  him,  fascinated  by  the  heat  of  him. 
He  seemed  possessed  by  a  passion  which  could  never, 

84 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

one  would  say,  have  been  inspired  save  by  what  was 
noble. 

"  You  know  what  kind  of  a  fellow  I  've  been :  all  right 
enough,  but  I  like  pleasures,  big  and  little.  Well,  when 
I  began  to  listen  to  MacLeod,  I  moved  into  a  garret 
the  poorest  student  would  have  grumbled  at.  I  turned 
in  my  money  to  the  Brotherhood.  The  money  I  got  for 
the  portrait  —  maybe  I  should  n't  have  asked  such  a 
whacking  big  price  if  I  had  n't  wanted  that  money  — 
I  turned  that  in  to  the  Brotherhood.  Would  a  fellow 
like  me  sleep  hard  and  eat  crusts  for  anything  but  a  big 
thing  ?  Now  I  ask  you  ?  " 

Osmond  sat  looking  at  him,  and  thinking,  thinking. 
This,  he  understood  perfectly,  was  youth  in  the  divinity 
of  its  throes  over  life,  life  wherever  it  was  bubbling  and 
glowing.  Always  it  was  the  fount  of  life,  and  where  the 
drops  glittered,  there  the  eyes  of  youth  had  to  follow, 
and  the  heart  of  youth  had  to  go.  The  exact  retort  was 
rising  to  his  lips :  "  That  was  my  money,  the  money  you 
gave  away.  I  earned  it  for  you.  I  dug  it  out  of  the 
ground."  But  the  retort  stayed  there.  He  offered  only 
what  seemed  a  blundering  remonstrance :  "  I  can't  help 
feeling,  Pete,  that  it's  your  business  to  paint  pictures. 
If  you  can  paint  'em  and  give  the  money  to  your  Bro 
therhood,  that's  something.  Only  paint  'em." 

"But  you  know,  I've  found  out  I  can  speak." 

There  it  was  again,  the  heart  of  youth  on  its  new 
track,  chasing  the  glow,  whatever  it  might  be,  the 
marsh-lamp  or  star.  Osmond  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  know,  Pete,"  he  owned.  "  I  don't  know.  I  'm 
out  of  the  world.  I  read  a  lot,  but  that 's  not  the  same 

85 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

thing  as  having  it  out  with  men.  But  I  feel  a  distinct 
conviction  that  it's  every  man's  business  to  mind  his 
own  business." 

"  You  would  n't  have  us  speak  ?  You  would  n't  have 
him,  Markham  MacLeod  ?  " 

The  boy's  impetuousness  made  denial  seem  like  war 
fare.  Osmond  put  it  aside  with  his  hand. 

"Don't,"  he  said.  "You  make  me  feel  like  Capital. 
I  'm  Labor,  lad.  I  always  have  been." 

"  Is  n't  it  anything  to  move  a  thousand  men  like  one  ? 
To  say  a  word  and  bring  on  a  strike  of  ten  thousand  ? 
The  big  chieftains  never  did  so  much  as  that.  Alexander 
was  n't  in  it.  Napoleon  was  n't.  It 's  colossal." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  seems  to  me  very  clever  to 
bring  on  a  strike,"  said  Osmond.  "It  would  seem  to 
me  a  great  triumph  to  make  ten  thousand  men  feel  justly. 
Resistance  is  n't  the  greatest  thing  to  me.  I  should  want 
to  know  whether  it  was  noble  to  resist." 

"  Ah,  but  it  is  noble !  Resistance  —  for  themselves, 
their  children,  their  children's  children." 

Osmond  was  looking  away  at  the  horizon,  a  whim 
sical  smile  coming  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"Yes,  Pete,"  he  said.  "But  you  paint  your  pic 
tures." 

"  Now  you  own  I  'm  right !  Is  n't  it  anything  to  move 
ten  thousand  men  to  throw  down  their  tools  and  go  on 
strike?" 

"  Well,  by  thunder ! "  Osmond  had  awakened.  "  Now 
you  put  it  that  way,  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  or  not. 
That  phrase  undid  you.  Lay  down  their  tools  ?  Show 
me  the  man  that  makes  me  take  up  my  tools  in  rever- 

86 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

ence  and  sobriety,  because  good  work  is  good  religion. 
That's  what  I'd  like." 

"  But  it  means  something,  —  starvation,  maybe,  death. 
You  don't  recognize  it,  do  you  ?  You  won't  recognize 
the  war  that 's  on  —  oh,  it  is  on  !  —  between  Capital 
and  Labor,  between  the  high  places  and  the  low.  It's 
war,  and  it 's  got  to  be  fought  out." 

"I  do  recognize  it,  lad."  He  spoke  gently,  thinking 
of  his  own  lot,  and  the  hard  way  through  which  he  had 
come  to  his  almost  fevered  championship  of  whatever 
was  maimed  or  hurt.  "  Only,  Pete,  do  you  know  what 
your  opposing  forces  need  ?  They  need  grannie." 

"To  say  it's  the  will  of  God  ?" 

"  To  be  wheeled  out  in  her  chair,  and  sit  at  the  head 
of  your  armies  and  say, '  Love  God.  Love  one  another/ 
If  they  love  God,  they'll  listen  to  Him.  If  they  love  one 
another  your  strikes  will  end  to-morrow,  and  your  rich 
man  will  break  bread  with  your  poor  one,  and  your 
poor  one  will  lose  hatred  for  the  rich.  You  need  grand 
mother." 

They  sat  smiling  over  it.  Peter  had  amazingly  cooled , 
He  rose  to  his  feet 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  '11  paint  some  pictures.  Of  course 
I  '11  paint  my  pictures  —  sometime.  There 's  the  Bro 
therhood  again.  Don't  I  want  to  turn  in  shekels  ?  Don't 
I  want  to  have  it  known  that  such  weight  as  my  name 
carries  is  going  in  there  ? " 

It  was  Osmond's  turn  to  rage.  He,  too,  rose,  and  they 
confronted  each  other.  Osmond  spoke.  His  voice  trem 
bled,  it  seemed  with  emotion  that  was  not  anger  but  a 
fervor  for  great  things. 

87 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"I  cannot  get  it  through  my  head.  You  can  do  the 
thing,  and  it's  I  that  value  it.  You  can  paint  pictures 
and  you  'd  prostitute  the  thing  for  money,  —  for  repu 
tation.  If  I  had  it,  if  I  had  that  gift "  —  he  paused,  and 
shook  his  head  as  if  he  shook  a  mane.  Peter  was  look 
ing  at  him  curiously.  This  was  passion  such  as  he  had 
never  seen  in  any  man. 

"  What  would  you  do,  old  chap  ?  "  he  asked. 

Osmond  was  ashamed  of  his  display,  but  he  had  to 
answer. 

"I  would  guard  it,"  he  said,  "as  a  man  would  guard 
—  a  woman." 

They  stood  silent,  their  eyes  not  meeting  now,  hardly 
knowing  how  to  get  away  from  each  other.  As  if  she 
had  been  evolved  by  his  mention  of  precious  woman 
hood,  Electra,  in  her  phaeton,  drove  swiftly  by.  They 
took  off  their  hats,  glad  of  the  break  in  the  moment's 
tension;  but  she  did  not  turn  that  way. 

"Could  she  be  going  to  see  her?"  Peter  asked  in 
haste. 

"To  see  her?" 

"  Rose.  She  must  n't  go  now.  Rose  has  gone  to  the 
orchard  with  her  book." 

He  started  straightway  across  the  field,  and  met 
Electra,  returning.  As  he  was  standing  in  the  roadway, 
hat  off,  smiling  most  confidently  at  her,  Electra  had  no 
resource  but  to  draw  up.  Before  she  fairly  knew  how 
it  had  come  about,  he  was  beside  her,  and  they  were  in 
a  proximity  for  the  most  intimate  converse.  Electra  felt 
irritably  as  if  she  could  not  escape. 


VIII 

PETER  made  up  his  mind  to  display,  at  last,  all 
the  guile  he  had ;  he  would  say  nothing  about  Rose. 
If  Electra  had  attempted  to  call  on  her,  she  might  im 
part  the  fact  to  him  or  not,  as  she  determined.  But 
Electra  did  not  wait  to  be  asked.  She  turned  to  him 
with  a  serious  air,  inquiring,  — 

"  When  is  Miss  MacLeod  likely  to  be  back  ? " 

"Rose?"  Peter  countered  obstinately.  "At  dinner 
time,  surely." 

"I  shall  try  to  find  her  then." 

Peter  felt  such  an  access  of  gratitude  that,  as  he  looked 
down  at  the  charmingly  gloved  hands,  holding  the  reins 
in  the  right  way,  he  thought  of  conveying  his  emotion 
by  placing  his  own  hand  over  them.  But  their  masterful 
ease  had  a  message  of  its  own.  It  seemed  almost  as  if 
they  might  resist.  He  cast  about  for  something  to  please 
her. 

"Electra,"  he  began,  "I'm  going  to  pitch  into  work 
with  Osmond." 

Electra  looked  at  him  over  a  chin  superbly  lifted. 
This  was  evidently  surprise,  but  whether  disdainful  of 
him  or  not  he  could  not  tell.  At  any  rate,  he  felt  whim 
sically  miserable  under  it. 

"  Osmond  works  on  the  farm,"  she  said  merely. 

Peter  inferred  some  belittling  of  Osmond,  and  im 
mediately  he  was  at  one  with  him  and  market-garden 
ing. 

89 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  belong  to  the  Brotherhood,"  he  said  stiffly.  "I 
don't  propose  to  live  like  a  bondholder  while  other  fel 
lows  are  hoeing.  I'm  going  to  work." 

Still  Electra  said  nothing.  She  had  meant  to  stop  at 
her  own  gate  and  let  Peter  leave  her,  if  he  would,  but 
she  had  driven  by,  and  now  they  were  in  a  pretty  reach 
of  pines,  with  the  needles  under  the  horse's  feet.  The 
reins  lay  loosely,  and  Electra,  who  seldom  did  anything 
without  a  painstaking  consciousness,  even  forgot  her 
driving,  and  let  her  hands  relax  into  an  unlawful 
ease.  They  might  almost  tremble,  she  was  afraid,  she 
felt  so  undone  with  .some  emotion,  —  disappointment, 
anger  ?  She  did  not  know.  But  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
on  a  spot  directly  ahead,  and  in  spite  of  herself  thought 
turbulently.  She  could  not  help  feeling  that  Peter 
would  be  surprised  if  he  knew  how  he  seemed  to  her 
after  this  return,  almost  a  stranger,  and  one  who  awoke 
in  her  no  desire  for  further  acquaintance.  He  was  not 
ministering  to  her  pride  in  any  way.  He  was  not  in  the 
least  a  person  whom  she  could  flaunt  at  gatherings  of 
the  intellectually  worshipful,  with  any  chance  of  his 
doing  her  credit.  She  herself  had  tried  to  talk  art  with 
him,  and  Peter  grew  dumb.  She  could  not  guess  it  was 
because  she  did  not  speak  his  language,  which  had 
become  almost  a  sign  language,  touched  here  and  there 
with  idiom  and  the  rest  understood,  —  a  jargon  of 
technicalities,  mostly,  it  seemed,  humorous,  he  ap 
peared  to  mean  them  so  lightly.  Before  he  went  abroad, 
she,  who  had  read  exhaustively  in  art,  used  to  impart 
fact  and  theory  to  him  in  a  serious  fashion,  and  Peter 
had  humbly  accepted  them.  But  now,  when  she  opened 

90 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

her  lips  about  his  darling  work  which  was  so  intimate  a 
part  of  him  that  it  was  almost  like  play,  he  had  a  queer 
horror  of  what  she  was  saying,  as  if  she  were  beginning 
a  persistent  solo  on  a  barbarous  instrument;  he  could 
think  of  nothing  but  putting  his  hands  over  his  ears 
and  running  off.  But  instead  he  had  only  been  silent. 
She  could  not  understand  Peter's  having  read  so  few 
books  and  being  in  possession  of  such  a  meagre  treasury 
of  formulated  opinion.  The  truth  was  that  he  had  so 
many  pleasant  things  to  think  about  that  books  were 
only  the  dullard's  task.  His  thoughts  were  not  very 
consecutive  or  toward  any  particular  end;  they  were 
merely  a  pageant  of  dancing  figures,  sometimes  fan 
tastic,  sometimes  dramatically  grave,  but  always  ab 
sorbing.  This  Electra  could  not  know.  Now  it  was 
running  through  her  mind  that  Peter,  though  he  had 
won  the  great  prizes  of  art,  was  mysteriously  dull  and 
not  what  she  considered  a  distinguished  figure  at  all. 
His  air,  his  clothes  even  —  she  found  herself  shrinking 
a  little,  at  the  moment,  from  the  slovenly  figure  he  made, 
his  long  legs  drawn  up  in  the  carriage  so  that  he  could 
clasp  his  hands  about  his  knees,  while  he  went  brightly 
on.  For  now  Peter  had  found  something  to  talk  about. 
His  topic  shone  before  him  as  he  handled  it.  This 
was  almost  like  painting  a  picture  with  a  real  brush  on 
real  canvas,  it  grew  so  fast. 

"We  might  found  a  community,"  he  was  urging  as 
warmly,  she  thought,  as  if  he  meant  it.  "  Osmond  can 
dig.  I  can.  I  wonder  if  you  could  milk  the  cow!" 

"  I  have  certainly  never  tried  to  milk  a  cow,"  said 
Electra,  in  a  tone  that  bit. 

91 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

But  Peter  was  n't  listening.  He  was  simply  pleasing 
his  own  creative  self. 

"  You  should  n't,"  he  offered  generously.  "  You 
should 

'  Sit  on  a  cushion  and  sew  a  fine  seam, 
And  live  on  ripe  strawberries,  sugar,  and  cream.'  " 

Electra  pulled  the  horse  up,  and  though  this  was  the 
narrowest  bit  of  road  for  a  mile,  turned,  with  a  masterly 
hand. 

"How  under  the  sun  do  you  do  that?"  Peter  was 
asking  pleasantly.  She  interrogated  him  with  a  glance, 
and  saw  him  hunched  together  in  more  general  aban 
don.  The  happier  Peter  was  in  his  own  thoughts  and 
the  warmer  the  sun  shone  on  him,  the  looser  his  joints 
became.  To  Electra  he  looked  like  a  vagabond,  but 
she  was  conscious  that  if  for  a  moment  he  would  act 
the  part  of  a  great  painter,  she  would  bid  him  sit  up, 
try  to  get  him  into  a  proper  cravat,  and  marry  him 
tomorrow.  Careless  Peter  was  quite  oblivious  to  the 
effect  he  was  creating.  He  had  forgotten  Electra,  save 
as  some  one  possessed  of  two  ears  to  listen. 

"Turn,"  he  pursued.  "How  can  you  turn?  I  never 
could.  I  remember  I  took  you  to  drive  once,  ages  ago, 
and  I  had  to  keep  on  in  a  thunder-shower,  round  the 
five-mile  curve,  because  I  did  n't  dare  to  let  you  know 
I  could  n't  cramp  the  wheel." 

Electra  remembered  the  day.  Peter  was  timidly 
worshipful  of  her  then,  and  she  had  found  that  quite 
appropriate  in  him.  She  remembered  the  lightning, 
and  how  satisfied  she  had  been  to  go  round  the  five- 
mile  curve,  if  only  to  show  that  she  was  not  timid  in  a 

92 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

storm.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  Peter  had  been  unable  to 
forego  the  delight  of  having  her  with  him;  but  now  it 
appeared  that  he  could  absently  sit  there  hugging  his 
knees  and  guying  the  occasion. 

"I  believe  I  can  cramp  the  wheel,"  he  was  saying 
sunnily,  out  of  an  absolute  content  in  his  limitations. 
"  Only  I  never  can  remember  which  rein  does  it.  Can 
you  turn  either  way,  Electra,  right  or  left,  one  just  as 
well  as  the  other?" 

Electra  could  not  answer  in  that  vein. 

"Don't!"  she  said  involuntarily. 

In  some  moods  Peter  had  a  habit  of  not  waiting  for 
answers. 

"It's  beyond  me  how  they  do  those  things,"  he  was 
saying,  "  drive,  ride,  swim.  Should  n't  you  like  to  be  a 
fish?  I  should  be  mighty  proud." 

"Shall  I  leave  you  here?"  asked  Electra,  drawing 
up  at  his  gate. 

Peter  came  out  of  his  childish  muse.  He  saw  Rose 
in  the  garden,  and  knew  it  was  better  that  Electra  should 
find  her  alone. 

"Yes,  let  me  out,"  he  said.  "I'll  run  back  and  see 
if  Osmond  is  where  I  left  him." 

Electra  also  had  seen  Rose,  lying  in  the  long  chair 
under  the  grape  arbor,  and  left  her  carriage  at  the  gate. 
Rose  was  in  white.  A  book  lay  in  her  lap,  unopened. 
The  idle  hands  had  clasped,  and  her  eyes  were  closed. 
Electra,  coming  upon  her,  felt  a  pang,  an  inexplicable 
one,  at  her  loveliness.  It  seemed  half  lassitude,  not 
alone  to  challenge  pity,  but  a  renewed  and  poignant 
interest  when  she  should  awake.  At  Electra's  step  her 

93 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

eyes  came  open  slowly,  as  if  there  were  nothing  in  that 
garden  ground  to  move  her.  Then  with  a  rush  of  color 
to  the  face,  her  eyes  grew  large.  Life,  surprised  life, 
poured  in  on  her,  and  she  had  gained  her  feet  with  a 
spring.  Before  Electra  could  insist  upon  her  own  de 
corous  distance,  Rose,  with  a  charming  gesture  and  an 
insistent  cordiality,  had  her  by  both  hands. 

"How  good  of  you,"  she  was  saying.  "How  good 
of  you!" 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  Electra,  with  a  stiff  dignity 
she  hated,  as  not  in  the  least  the  armor  she  had  meant 
to  wear.  "  I  came  to  see  if  you  would  drive  over  to  the 
house."  This  she  had  not  meant  to  ask,  but  it  seemed 
easier  to  deal  with  problematic  characters  in  the  course 
of  motion  than  face  to  face  and  standing.  Rose  was 
eagerly  ready. 

"My  hat  is  here,"  she  cried,  "and  my  parasol.  I 
thought  I  might  walk  up  the  road  a  bit,  —  but  it  was 
so  hot.  How  good  of  you ! " 

As  they  went  down  the  path  together,  Rose  in  her 
slender  grace  and  eager  motions  the  significant  note  in 
the  garden,  Electra  felt  the  irritation  of  having,  for  any 
reason,  committed  herself  to  even  a  short  intimacy  with 
her.  But  presently  they  were  together  in  the  carriage, 
and  Electra  spoke. 

"  My  grandmother  is  at  home  this  morning.  We 
have  a  guest  for  a  few  days,  Mr.  William  Stark,  of 
London.  I  thought  you  might  be  interested  in  meeting 
them  both." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  returned  Rose,  still  in  that 
warmly  impulsive  tone. 

94 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Electra  had  a  strong  distaste  for  unconsidered  things. 
They  seemed  to  her  to  show  lack  of  poise.  Now  she 
was  conscious  of  the  inconsistency  of  proposing  that 
Rose  should  meet  anybody,  even  Billy  Stark.  But  in 
the  moment  of  conceiving  it  she  had  remembered  that 
Mr.  Stark  was  a  man  of  the  world  ;  he  would  know  an 
adventuress  when  he  saw  one.  Afterwards  she  would 
ask  him  frankly  how  his  judgment  had  been  affected 
by  the  siren's  song. 

At  the  house  she  led  the  way  into  the  vine-shaded 
sitting-room  where  Madam  Fulton  and  Stark  had  been 
engaged  for  an  hour  in  a  battle  delightful  to  them  both. 
Madam  Fulton  sat  beautifully  upright  in  a  straight- 
backed  chair,  and  her  old  friend,  with  her  permission, 
lay  upon  a  bamboo  couch,  where  he  held  his  eyeglass 
by  its  ribbon  in  one  outstretched  hand  and  gesticulated 
with  it,  while  he  urged  torrentially  upon  her  the  rights 
of  a  publisher  to  the  confidence  of  his  author.  Now 
he  came  to  his  feet  and  stood  punctiliously. 

"Ah!"  said  Madam  Fulton.  She  had  remembered 
a  little  lack  in  her  reception  of  Rose  when,  hot  and 
tired  from  her  journey,  she  had  found  her  in  the  house. 
"  So  here  is  our  young  lady  again.  I  have  been  wonder 
ing  why  we  have  n't  seen  you,  my  dear." 

While  Rose,  in  her  grateful  sweetness,  was  bowing 
over  her  hand,  Electra  had  said  to  the  gentleman, 
with  the  air  of  its  being  quite  the  usual  thing  to  say,  — 

"You  know  all  about  Markham  MacLeod,  Mr. 
Stark.  This  is  the  daughter  of  Markham  MacLeod." 

Somehow,  save  to  Rose,  it  seemed  an  adequate  pre 
sentation,  and  that  instant  Stark  was  bowing  before  her. 

95 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"I  can't  say  Mr.  MacLeod,"  Electra  added,  with 
the  elaborate  grace  that  fitted  what  seemed  to  her  that 
skillful  preface.  "  He  is  quite  too  great  for  that,  is  n't 
he,  Mr.  Stark?" 

Billy  had  no  extravagant  opinion  of  Markham  Mac 
Leod.  He  had  rather  the  natural  dubiousness  of  the 
inquiring  mind  toward  a  man  whom  the  world  delighted 
to  honor  and  who  had,  according  to  dispassionate 
standards,  done  nothing,  as  yet,  save  telling  others  what 
to  do. 

"We  don't  say  Mr.  Browning  often,"  he  concurred, 
"  certainly  not  Mr.  Shakespeare.  But,  my  dear  young 
lady,  I  don't  forgive  your  father." 

He  seated  himself,  for  Electra  was  now  decorously 
smiling  in  a  chair  that  became  her.  It  had  a  high 
carved  top  like  Madam  Fulton's,  and  in  these  the 
older  woman  and  the  younger  looked  like  the  finest- 
fibred  beings  bred  out  of  endurance  and  strong  virtues. 
Rose  was  in  a  low  chair  near  Madam  Fulton's  knee. 
She  was  leaning  forward  now,  listening  in  her  receptive 
way,  and  Billy  Stark  looked  at  her  anew  and  wondered 
at  her  beauty  and  her  grace.  But  he  recalled  himself 
with  a  sigh,  and  remembered  it  was  the  old  common 
place  —  youth  —  and  it  was  not  for  him. 

"You  don't  forgive  my  father?"  she  repeated,  with 
a  slightly  foreign  accent  that  came  sometimes  upon 
her  tongue,  no  one  knew  why,  whether  to  enhance  her 
charm  or  in  unconsciousness.  "Why?" 

Billy  Stark  had  thrown  one  of  his  short  legs  over  the 
other,  and  held  it  with  his  well-kept  hand. 

"He  is  a  renegade,"  he  said.  "He  began  to  write, 
96 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

and  stopped  writing.    You  can't  expect  a  publisher  to 
condone  that." 

Madam  Fulton  was  having  a  strange  pang  of  liking 
and  envy  as  she  looked  at  the  girl,  one  such  as  she 
never  felt  over  Electra.  Rose  for  her,  too,  had  youth, 
beautiful  and  pathetic  also.  As  the  girl  only  smiled 
without  answering,  she  said  kindly,  — 

"Your  father  got  very  much  interested  in  people, 
did  n't  he,  my  dear  ?  the  working  classes  ?  " 

"Labor,"  said  Electra,  as  if  it  were  a  war-cry. 

Madam  Fulton  glanced  at  her  involuntarily,  with  a 
satirical  thought.  Electra  had  a  maternal  attitude 
toward  her  servants,  shown,  her  grandmother  thought, 
chiefly  by  interfering  in  their  private  lives.  She  worked 
tirelessly  at  clubs  to  raise  money  for  labor,  and  she  lis 
tened  to  the  most  arid  talks  on  the  situation  of  the  day. 
But  did  Electra  love  her  fellowman  ?  Madam  Fulton 
did  not  know.  She  had  seen  no  sign  of  it.  But  Rose  was 
returning  one  of  her  vague  answers  that  always  seemed 
significant,  and,  to  any  partial  ear,  quite  adequate. 

"My  father  founded  what  he  calls  the  Brotherhood. 
He  speaks  for  it.  He  works  for  it.  But  you  know  that 
already." 

Stark  nodded. 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "It  is  tremendous.  He  says  to 
this  man  '  Come,'  and  he  cometh,  and  so  on.  I  should 
think  it  would  make  him  lie  awake  o'  nights." 

"No,"  said  Rose,  smiling  brilliantly  in  a  way  she 
had  when  the  smile  had  no  honest  mirth  in  it,  "my 
father  never  lies  awake.  Responsibility  is  the  last  thing 
he  fears." 

97 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Now  Electra  was  smiling  upon  her  so  persuasively 
that  Rose  bent  toward  the  look  as  if  it  were  a  species 
of  sunshine. 

"We  want  you  to  do  something  for  us,"  Electra  said. 

"Oh,  I'll  do  it,"  Rose  was  responding  eagerly. 
"Gladly." 

"  We  want  you  to  give  us  a  talk  on  your  father." 

Rose,  painfully  thrown  back  upon  herself,  looked  her 
discomfort. 

"  Do  you  mean  "  -  she  began.  "  That  was  what  you 
asked  me  before." 

"For  the  Club." 

"They  want  me  to  give  a  talk  on  my  book,"  said 
Madam  Fulton,  looking  at  Stark  with  a  direct  mirth. 
Then,  still  with  a  meaning  for  him,  she  added,  to  Rose, 
"  You  do  it,  my  dear.  So  will  I,  if  they  drive  me  to  it. 
We'll  surprise  them." 

"That  would  be  very  sweet  of  you,  grandmother," 
said  Electra,  innocent  of  hidden  meanings.  "  Then  we 
might  count  on  two  afternoons." 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  about  my  father?" 
asked  Rose,  and  Electra  answered  with  a  contrasting 
enthusiasm,  — 

"His  habit  of  thought,  something  about  his  daily 
life  as  seen  by  those  nearest  him,  anything  to  interpret 
a  great  man  to  us." 

"I  can't  do  it."  Rose  had  answered  with  a  touch 
of  harshness  strangely  contrasted  with  her  facile  ways. 
"I  really  can't." 

Now  she  saw  why  she  had  been  summoned,  and  her 
gratitude  sobered  into  dull  distaste.  She  felt  cold. 

98 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"That  sort  of  thing  is  very  difficult,"  said  Stark, 
in  a  general  desire  to  quell  the  emotional  tide.  "  I  often 
think  a  person  next  us  has  to  be  inarticulate  about  us. 
He  does  n't  know  really  what  he  thinks  of  us  till  we  are 
gone.  You  know  a  big  Frenchman  says  it  is  like  being 
inside  the  works  of  a  clock.  You  can't  tell  the  time  there. 
You  have  to  go  outside." 

Rose  was  upon  her  feet,  a  lovely  figure,  wistful  and 
mysteriously  sad. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  she  said.  "  Thank  you  for  letting 
me  come."  She  had  turned  away  when  Madam  Fulton 
called  to  her. 

"Miss  MacLeod!"  Rose  stood,  arrested.  Madam 
Fulton  continued,  "  Why  not  stay  to  luncheon  with  us  ?  " 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  Apparently  she  could  not. 
Tears  were  swimming  in  her  eyes.  She  looked  at  Electra 
in  what  might  be  reproach  or  a  despair  at  the  futility 
of  the  fight  she  had  to  make.  She  returned  to  Madam 
Fulton  and  stood  before  her. 

"You  didn't  know,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "No 
one  has  told  you ! " 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  old  lady  kindly.  "What  is 
it?" 

Rose  stood  before  her,  proudly  now,  her  back  turned 
upon  Electra,  as  if  she  repudiated  one  source  of  justice 
and  appealed  to  another  court. 

"You  called  me  Miss  MacLeod,"  she  said,  in  her 
full-throated  voice.  "  I  was  your  grandson's  wife." 

"  Tom's  wife ! "  cried  the  old  lady,  in  a  sharp  staccato. 
"Tom's  wife!  For  heaven's  sake!" 

Rose  turned  from  her  to  Stark  with  an  eloquent 
99 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

insistence.  Electra,  outside  the  circle  of  the  drama, 
stood  ignored.  But  Madam  Fulton  called  to  her,  — 

"  Electra,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  it,"  answered  Electra,  with  composure. 

"You  have  heard  it?   Why  did  n't  you  tell  me?" 

But  Electra  made  no  reply.  Madam  Fulton  gave 
way  to  her  excitement.  It  seemed  to  put  new  blood  into 
her  veins. 

"Sit  down  here,"  she  said  imperiously,  pushing  for 
ward  a  chair.  Rose  sank  upon  it  in  a  dignified  obedi 
ence.  "  Now  tell  me,  —  how  long  were  you  married  ?  " 

"Two  years." 

"  Did  Tom "  —  there  were  many  things  the  old 
lady,  knowing  Tom,  wished  to  ask.  But  Tom  was  in 
his  grave,  and  she  contented  herself  with  remarking, 
"I  certainly  am  petrified." 

Stark  gave  a  little  smiling  nod  at  them,  and  began 
making  his  way  to  the  door.  It  seemed  to  him  emphati 
cally  that  this  was  a  family  conclave. 

"  Billy,"  called  the  old  lady, "  did  you  ever  hear  of  such 
a  thing  in  your  life  ?  Tom  had  a  wife  two  years  before 
he  died,  and  not  a  word.  Did  you  ever  dream  of  such 
a  thing?  Electra,  I  could  trounce  you  for  not  telling 
me."  Then,  as  no  one  spoke,  she  asked  sharply,  "  Does 
Peter  know  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Madam  Fulton,"  Rose  returned.  "  He  brought 
me  here.  Not  quite  that.  He  assured  me  I  might  come." 

"Come!  of  course  you  had  to  come.  You  belong 
here.  Why  aren't  you  staying  with  us?  Electra, 
have  n't  you  seen  to  it  ?  " 

Electra  was  immovable,  and  the  other  girl  turned  to 
100 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

her  a  mute  glance.  To  Billy  Stark  it  said  many  things. 
Reproach  was  in  it,  and  a  challenging,  almost  a  hard 
appeal.  Rose  looked  like  a  gentle  thing  that  has  been 
forced  to  fight.  But  she  spoke  to  Madam  Fulton. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said,  with  her  exquisite  deference. 
"  I  must  n't  tire  you." 

"Tire  me!  I'm  never  tired.  Well,  you  must  come 
again.  You  must  come  to  stay.  Electra  will  see  to 
that." 

But  Electra  only  walked  to  the  library  door  with  the 
departing  guest,  and  presently  Billy  Stark  caught  the 
white  shimmer  of  a  gown,  as  Rose  went  down  the  path. 
Electra  was  looking  eagerly  from  him  to  her  grand 
mother. 

"Well,  Mr.  Stark,"  she  said,  as  if  she  hurried  him, 
"  what  do  you  think  of  her  ?  " 

Stark  indicated  a  chair,  with  a  courteous  motion,  and 
then  allowed  himself  to  be  seated. 

"She  is  a  remarkably  beautiful  young  woman,"  he 
returned,  in  his  impartial  way  of  shedding  optimism. 
Electra  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  I  know  —  I  know.  It 's  easy  enough  to  be  hand 
some." 

"Oh,  is  it?"  commented  Madam  Fulton. 

"But  what  do  you  think  of  her?  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  Electra?"  asked  her  grand 
mother  testily.  She  was  prepared  to  hear  that  Electra 
thought  the  stranger  lacking  in  poise. 

A  deep  red  had  risen  to  Electra's  cheeks.  Her  hands 
flew  together  in  a  nervous  clasp.  She  had  momentarily 
lost  what  poise  she  herself  possessed. 

101 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"  Can't  you  see,"  she  urged,  "  that  girl  is  an  adven 
turess?" 

Grandmother  was  leaning  forward,  enchanted  at  the 
prospect.  She  seemed  to  have  before  her  an  absorbing 
work  of  fiction,  "  concluded  in  our  next." 

"  Now  what  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  she  inquired  cosily. 
"Would  n't  that  be  grand!  Stay  here,  Billy.  If  there's 
any  scandal  about  Queen  Elizabeth,  you  must  share  it." 

Electra  was  speaking  with  a  high  impatience. 

"Of  course  she  is  an  adventuress.  You  must  see  it, 
both  of  you." 

"Is  that  all  the  evidence  you  have?"  asked  the  old 
lady  dryly. 

Electra  blenched  a  little.  She  liked  to  have  irrefuta 
ble  fact  on  her  side,  and  allow  other  people  the  general 
ities.  Yet  her  certainty  remained  untouched. 

"Does  Peter  say  she  is  Tom's  wife?"  inquired 
Madam  Fulton,  in  some  scorn  at  herself  for  putting 
elementary  questions. 

"  Yes.   Peter  says  she  was  Tom's  wife." 

"There,  you  see!"  But  at  Electra's  look,  the  old 
lady  cried  out  to  Stark,  in  irrepressible  annoyance, 
"No,  she  doesn't  see!  It  doesn't  mean  a  thing  to 
her." 

"  It  will  be  quite  easy,"  said  Stark  soothingly,  "  to 
assure  yourself,  Miss  Electra.  She  will  no  doubt  tell 
you  where  she  was  married.  That  can  be  confirmed  at 
once." 

"She  must  present  her  proofs,"  said  Electra.  "I 
shall  not  ask  for  them." 

"  What  do  you  hate  the  poor  girl  for  ?  "  asked  Madam 
102 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Fulton.  "Is  it  the  money?  Are  you  afraid  you've  got 
to  share  with  her  ?  " 

Billy  Stark  had  been  nearing  the  door,  and  now  he 
was  out  of  the  room. 

"  Have  you  told  Peter  how  you  feel  about  it  ?  "  asked 
the  old  lady  keenly. 

Electra  seemed  to  herself  to  be  unjustly  upon  her  own 
defense  when  she  had  meant  to  place  the  stranger  there. 

"He  knows  it,  grandmother."  She  spoke  as  impa 
tiently  as  decorum  would  allow. 

The  old  lady  watched  her  for  a  moment  steadily. 
Then  she  inquired,  — 

"  Do  you  know  what 's  the  matter  with  you,  Electra  ?  " 

"With  me,  grandmother?" 

"You're  jealous,  child.  You're  jealous  of  Peter, 
because  the  girl 's  so  pretty." 

Electra  stood  still,  the  color  surging  over  her  face. 
She  felt  out  of  doors  for  all  the  world  to  jeer  at,  and 
without  the  blameless  habit  of  her  life.  Nothing,  Elec 
tra  told  herself,  even  at  that  moment,  had  the  value  of 
the  truth.  If  she  believed  herself  to  be  jealous,  she  must 
not  shirk  it,  degrading  as  it  was.  But  she  would  not 
believe  it. 

"You  must  excuse  me,  grandmother,"  she  said,  with 
dignity.  "I  can't  discuss  such  things,  even  with  you." 

Madam  Fulton  spoke  quite  eagerly. 

"  But,  bless  you,  child,  I  like  you  the  better  for  it.  It 
makes  you  human.  Your  decorum  is  the  only  thing  I  Ve 
ever  had  to  complain  of.  If  I  could  find  a  weakness  in 
you  now  and  then,  we  should  agree  like  two  peas  in  a 
pod." 

103 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Electra  stood  taller  and  straighten 

"At  least,"  she  said,  "the  young  woman  is  here,  and 
we  have  got  to  do  our  best  about  it." 

"The  young  woman!  Don't  talk  as  if  she  were  a 
kitchen  wench.  What's  the  use,  Electra!  What's  the 
sense  in  being  so  irreproachable  ?  Come  off  your  stilts 
while  we're  alone  together." 

"  But,  grandmother,"  said  Electra,  with  an  accession 
of  firmness,  and  leaving  irrelevant  strictures  to  be  con 
sidered  in  the  silence  of  her  room,  "I  shall  neither 
acknowledge  her  nor  shall  I  invite  her  here." 

"You  won't  acknowledge  her?" 

"Not  until  she  brings  me  proof." 

"You  won't  ask  for  it?" 

"  I  shan't  ask  for  it.  It  is  for  her  to  act,  not  for  me." 

"And  you  won't  have  her  here?  Then,  by  George, 
Electra,  I  will!" 

Electra  raised  her  eyebrows  by  the  slightest  possible 
space.  It  was  involuntary,  but  the  old  lady  saw  it. 

"You're  quite  right,"  she  said  ironically,  "the  house 
is  n't  mine." 

"  The  house  is  yours  to  do  exactly  as  you  please  with 
it,"  said  Electra,  with  an  instant  justice  instinct  even 
with  a  dutiful  warmth.  "Any  guest  you  invite  is  wel 
come.  Only,  grandmother,  I  must  beg  of  you  not  to 
invite  this  particular  person." 

"Person!  Electra,  you  make  me  mad.  Be  human; 
come,  unbend  a  little.  Take  the  poker  out  of  your  train 
ing.  Do  the  decent  thing,  and  ask  her  here,  and  then 
find  out  about  her,  and  if  she  's  a  baggage,  turn  her 
out,  neck  and  crop." 

104 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  must  refuse,  grandmother,"  said  Electra.    "Now 
are  n't  you  getting  tired  ?   I  will  bring  your  food." 
Madam  Fulton  spoke  with  deliberate  unction :  — 
"Perdition  take  my  food !" 


IX 

ROSE  came  down  out  of  her  chamber  after  supper 
on  a  warm  still  evening.  She  had  stayed  in  retire 
ment  nearly  all  day.  Grandmother  had  been  suffering 
discomfort  from  the  heat  and  was  better  alone.  Peter 
had  gone  to  town,  and  he  had  not  come  back.  The  girl 
stopped  in  the  doorway  of  the  silent  house  and  looked 
out  into  the  night.  It  was  all  moonlight,  all  mysterious 
shadows  and  enchanting  stillnesses.  The  glamour  of  the 
hour  lay  over  it  like  a  veil,  and  her  heart  responded  to 
the  calling  from  mysterious  distances,  voices  that  were 
those  of  life  itself  springing  within  her  and  echoing  back 
from  that  delusive  world.  She  stood  there  smiling  a 
little,  trying  to  keep  the  wholesome  bitterness  of  her 
mood,  because  she  thought  she  knew  what  a  deceiving 
jade  fortune  is,  and  yet  with  her  young  heart  pathetically 
craving  life  and  the  fullness  of  it.  Rose  thought  she  had 
quite  fathomed  the  worth  of  things.  She  knew  the 
bravest  shows  are  made  by  the  trickiest  design,  and  she 
had  sworn,  in  desperate  defense  of  herself,  to  "take  the 
world  but  as  the  world,"  —  a  gaming-ground  for  base 
passions  and  self-love.  But  to-night  all  the  instincts  of 
youth  in  her  were  innocently  vocal.  Here  was  the  beau 
tiful  earth,  again  fecund  and  full  of  gifts.  She  could  not 
help  believing  in  it.  She  gathered  her  skirts  about  her, 
and  stepped  out  into  the  dew,  and  with  no  avowed  pur 
pose,  but,  straight  as  inevitable  intent  could  lead  her, 

106 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

crossed  the  orchard  and  went  down  across  the  field  to 
Osmond.  She  had  selected  that  way,  in  her  unconscious 
mind,  when  grandmother  had  that  morning  sent  her 
into  the  attic  to  look  at  some  precious  heirlooms  in 
disuse.  Looking  out  of  the  attic  window  she  had  noted 
his  little  shack  and  fields  of  growing  things,  and  some 
impatience  then  had  said  to  her,  That  would  be  the  way 
to  get  to  him.  Before  the  last  wall,  she  came  out  on  a 
low  rise  where  there  was  a  spreading  tree.  It  was  an 
oak  tree,  and  though  there  seemed  to  be  no  wind  that 
night,  the  leaves  rustled  thinly. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  It  was  Osmond's  voice  out 
of  the  shadow  near  the  wall. 

Rose  answered  at  once,  — 

"  I  was  going  down  to  see  you." 

"  I  thought  you  would  come." 

He  was  sitting  there,  his  back  against  the  wall,  and 
at  once  she  sank  down  opposite  him  on  a  stone  that 
made  her  a  prim  little  seat.  The  shadow  lay  upon  her 
in  flecks,  but  the  outline  of  her  white  dress  was  visible 
to  him. 

"Did  you  call  me?"  she  asked.  There  was  no  trace 
of  her  unrest  of  the  moments  before,  either  in  her  man 
ner  or  in  her  own  happy  consciousness.  She  felt  instead 
a  delicious  ease  and  security  that  needed  no  explaining 
even  to  herself. 

Osmond  answered  as  if  he  were  deliberating. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  called  you.  I  hope  I  did  n't, 
I  was  thinking  about  you,  of  course." 

"  Why  do  you  hope  you  did  n't  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  n't  any  right  to." 
'  107 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  Does  n't  my  coming  prove  you  had  a  right  to  ?  You 
see  you  did  call  me,  and  I  came." 

After  a  moment  he  answered  irrelevantly,  — 

"  I  'm  a  cowardly  sort  of  chap.  When  I  feel  like  call 
ing  you,  I  choke  it  down.  I  don't  want  to  get  the  habit 
of  you." 

"Why  not?" 

"  One  reason  —  it  will  be  so  difficult  when  you  go 
away." 

A  sense  of  freedom  and  happiness  possessed  her. 
Words  rose  tumultuously  to  her  lips,  to  be  choked  there. 
She  wanted  to  sa.y  unreasonably,  "  I  shall  never  go  away. 
How  could  you  think  it?"  But  instead  she  asked,  with 
a  happy  indirection,  "  Where  am  I  going  ?  " 

He,  too,  answered  lightly,  — 

"How  should  I  know?  Back  into  your  cloud,  I 
guess  —  dear  goddess."  The  last  words  were  very  low, 
and  to  himself,  but  she  heard  them.  Instantly  and 
against  all  reason,  she,  who  had  never  meant  to  be 
happy  again,  laughed  ecstatically. 

"  Think,"  she  said,  "  a  month  ago  I  did  n't  know  you 
were  in  the  world." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  did.  Peter  told  you  he  had  a  kind  of  a 
brother,  that  worked  on  the  farm.  But  I  did  n't  know 
you  were  in  the  world." 

"Of  course,"  she  deliberated  softly,  "I  knew  Peter 
had  a  brother.  But  I  did  n't  know  it  was  you." 

The  moonlit  air  was  as  beguiling  to  him  as  it  was 
to  her.  Everything  was  different  and  everything  was 
possible.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  and  tried  to  recall 
old  prudences.  In  vain.  The  still,  bright  world  told 

108 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

him,  with  a  voice  so  quiet  that  it  was  like  a  hand  upon 
his  heart,  that  it  was  the  only  world.  The  daylight  one 
of  doubts  and  dull  expediency  had  been  arranged  by 
man.  This  was  the  home  of  the  spirit.  For  a  moment 
he  felt  himself  drowning  in  that  sea  of  life.  Then,  per 
haps  lifted  by  his  striving  will,  he  seemed  to  come  out 
again  to  the  free  air  that  had  touched  him  at  her  coming. 
Again  he  was  at  peace  and  incredibly  exalted.  He  tried 
to  bring  lightness  into  their  talk. 

"I  suppose,"  said  he,  "you  are  one  of  the  charmers." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  charmers  ?  " 

"Don't  ask  me  what  I  mean,  when  you  know.  If 
you  do  that,  we  shall  forget  our  language." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  our  language  ?  " 

"Yours  and  mine.  Don't  you  hear  it  going  on,  ques 
tion  and  answer,  question  and  answer,  all  the  time  our 
tongues  are  talking  ?  Those  are  the  things  we  never  can 
speak  out  loud." 

"  Yes,  I  hear  them.  But  I  could  n't  tell  what  I  hear." 

"  Of  course  you  could  n't.  Only  when  we  really  speak 
with  our  lips,  we  must  tell  each  other  the  truth.  If  we 
don't,  we  shall  jar  things.  Then  the  other  voices  will 
stop." 

When  she  spoke  her  words  had  a  note  of  pain,  mys 
teriously  disproportioned,  he  thought,  to  the  warning 
he  had  given. 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  told  you  what  was  n't  true," 
she  faltered.  Life  had  gone  out  of  her. 

The  tenderest  comforting  seemed  to  him  too  harsh 
for  such  pathetic  sorrow.  But  he  clung  to  his  lighter, 
safer  mood. 

109 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"  We  've  simply  got  to  tell  each  other  the  truth.  When 
we  don't,  it's  like  the  clanging  of  ten  thousand  bells. 
Of  course  that  drowns  the  other  voices.  So  when  I  ask 
you  if  you  are  one  of  the  charmers,  you  must  n't  ask 
what  I  mean.  You  must  answer." 

She  began  to  laugh.   His  heart  rejoiced  at  it. 

"Yes,"  she  owned  gleefully.    "Yes,  I  am." 

"That's  a  good  lady.  You're  very  beautiful,  too, 
are  n't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  corroborated.  "Oh,  I'd  swear  to  any 
thing!" 

"If  it's  true,"  he  corrected  her.  "What  are  your 
accomplishments,  missy?  Do  you  play  the  piano?" 

For  his  life,  Osmond  could  not  have  told  why  he 
addressed  her  as  he  did,  or  how  he  got  the  words.  Some 
strange  self  seemed  to  have  sprung  up  in  him,  a  self 
that  had  a  language  he  had  not  learned  from  books  nor 
used  to  woman.  The  new  self  grew  rapidly.  He  felt  it 
wax  within  him.  It  was  loquacious,  too.  It  seemed  to 
have  more  to  say  than  there  would  be  time  for  in  a  mil 
lion  years;  but  he  gave  it  head. 

"I  play  a  little,"  said  Rose.  She  was  meeting  him 
joyously.  "I  sing,  too." 

"  Yes,  you  sing.   I  guessed  that.   Let  me  hear  you." 

At  once  she  folded  her  hands  on  her  knees  and  sang 
like  a  child  in  heaven,  with  the  art  that  is  simplicity. 
She  sang  "Nous  n'irons  plus  au  bois,"  and  Osmond 
felt  his  heart  choking  with  the  melancholy  of  it.  His 
own  voice  trembled  when  he  said,  — 

"You  must  not  sing  that  often.   It's  too  sad." 

"  Are  we  never  to  be  sad  ?  "   She  asked  it  in  a  quick 
110 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

tone  full  of  eager  confidence,  as  if  whatever  he  told  her 
was  bound  to  come  to  pass. 

"  Not  when  we  are  together." 

Premonition  chilled  him  there.  Why  should  they 
ever  be  together  again  ?  Why  was  it  not  possible  that 
this  was  his  one  night,  the  first  and  the  last  ?  So  if  it 
was  to  be  the  last,  he  would  taste  every  minute  of  it, 
and  make  it  his  to  keep. 

"  Well,"  he  said  consideringly,  "  so  you  are  a  charmer. 
You  can  charm  a  bird  off  a  bush.  That  would  be  one 
of  the  first  tricks." 

She  answered,  in  what  he  saw  was  real  delight,  — 

"  I  can  try.    Want  me  to  ?  " 

"No,  no.  You  can't  tell  what  will  become  of  the  bird 
—  in  the  end." 

His  voice  sounded  to  her  ineffably  sad.  Eager  words 
rose  again  to  her  lips,  and  again  she  held  them  back, 
even  against  the  glamour  of  that  light  and  air. 

"You  broke  your  promise  to  me,"  she  adventured 
presently. 

"  What  promise  ?  " 

"You  said  you  would  come  to  the  house." 

"  I  said  I  might."  He  spoke  with  an  embracing  ten 
derness,  as  if  to  a  child.  She  fancied  he  was  smiling 
at  her  through  the  dusk.  "  Besides,"  he  continued,  "  I 
shan't  come  to  see  you  there,  anyway;  I  have  decided 
that." 

"Why  not?" 

"This  is  better." 

"This?" 

"  This  tree." 

Ill 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

It  seemed  quite  just  and  natural  that  she  should  meet 
him  there.  Why  should  she  disclaim  it  ? 

"  But  you  won't  go  to  the  house  to  see  your  grand 
mother?" 

"  Oh,  I  see  grannie.  She  wakes  before  day.  We  have 
a  little  talk  every  morning  while  you're  asleep.  The 
last  time  "  —  he  stopped. 

"Well!"  she  urged  him. 

"  The  last  time  I  passed  your  door  I  heard  your  step 
inside.  When  I  went  out  at  the  front  door,  I  heard  you 
on  the  stairs."  It  had  apparently  enormous  significance 
to  him.  "The  next  morning  I  came  earlier,"  said  Os 
mond,  in  a  low  tone,  "  but  I  dropped  a  handful  of  rose 
leaves  at  your  sill." 

"  I  saw  them  —  scattered  rose  leaves." 

"  For  you  to  step  on." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"But  I  did  n't,"  she  said.   "I  did  n't  step  on  them." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"  I  gathered  them  up  very  carefully  in  my  handker 
chief  and  left  them  in  my  bureau  drawer." 

"  Now,  why  "  —  he  spoke  curiously  —  "  why  did  you 
do  that?" 

"  I  hate  to  throw  away  flowers.  They  are  precious 
to  me." 

There  was  silence  again,  and  then  he  said  reprov 
ingly,  - 

"  No,  you  must  n't  do  that." 

"Do  what?" 

"  You  must  n't  get  up  earlier  to  catch  me  scattering 
my  rose  leaves.  That  would  n't  be  fair." 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  That  was  what  I  was  thinking."  She  mused  a  mo 
ment.  "  No,  I  suppose  it  would  n't  be  fair." 

"You  see  we  shall  have  to  play  fair  every  minute. 
That's  the  way  to  be  good  playmates." 

"  That 's  what  we  are,  is  n't  it  —  playmates  ?  " 

"  It 's  about  the  size  of  it."  Then  he  asked  her  gravely, 
across  the  distance  between  them,  "  Don't  you  hear  a 
nightingale  ?  " 

She  was  taken  in. 

"  But  there  are  n't  any  nightingales  in  New  Eng 
land!" 

"  I  almost  think  I  hear  one.  You  see  if  you  don't." 

She  caught  the  pace  then,  and  listened.  Presently 
she  spoke  as  gravely  as  he  had  done. 

"  I  am  sure  I  hear  one  —  over  there  in  the  rose 
garden." 

"I  knew  you  would."  He  breathed  quickly,  in  a 
gay  relief.  "  Yes,  in  the  rose  garden, '  her  breast  against 
a  thorn.'  Well,  playmate,  it's  a  wonderful  night.  I 
smell  the  roses,  too,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  lilies.    The  nightingale  sings  very  loud." 

"Let  us  talk,  playmate.  Where  have  you  been  since 
I  saw  you  last  ?  " 

"  Since  that  other  night  I  came  down  here  ?  " 

"  Since  that  other  year,  so  long  ago.  We  must  n't 
forget  there  are  other  years,  though  we  can't  quite  recall 
them.  If  there  had  n't  been,  we  should  n't  be  hearing 
the  nightingale  to-night  and  talking  without  words. 
You  see  it's  a  good  while  since  I  saw  you.  How  old 
are  you  ?  " 

"Twenty-five." 

113 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Twenty-five!  A  quarter  of  a  century.  That's  a 
long  time.  Well,  what  have  you  been  doing  all  that 
twenty-five  years?" 

She  seemed  to  shrink  into  herself,  as  if  a  hand  had 
struck  her. 

"Don't!"  she  breathed.  "Don't  ask  me  to  remember." 

"Why,  no!   not  if  it  troubles  you." 

"Troubles  me!  it  kills  me.    Can't  we  begin  now?" 

"  We  will  begin  now.  There,  playmate,  don't  shiver. 
I  feel  you're  doing  it  through  the  moonlight.  Don't 
let  your  chin  tremble  either.  It  did,  that  night  down 
in  the  shack." 

"  When  I  was  talking  about  Electra  ?  " 

"  I  guess  so.  Anyway  it  trembled  a  lot,  and  I  made 
up  my  mind  it  must  n't  any  more.  Cheer  up,  playmate. 
Be  a  man." 

"I  wish  I  were  a  man."  She  spoke  bitterly.  The 
beauty  of  the  night  seemed  to  break  about  her,  and  this 
castle  of  whim  that  had  looked,  a  moment  ago,  more 
solid  than  certainty,  was  crumbling. 

"Now  you're  doing  what  I  told  you  not  to,"  he 
warned  her  gravely.  "You  have  stopped  telling  the 
truth.  You  don't  wish  you  were  a  man.  Think  how 
happy  you  were  a  minute  ago,  only  because  you  are  a 
beautiful  woman  and  you  heard  the  nightingale." 

She  was  struggling  back  into  the  clear  medium  that 
had  been  between  them  the  moment  before. 

"  I  only  meant "  —  she  spoke  painstakingly,  hunting 
for  words  and  pathetically  anxious  to  have  them  right 
—  "I  only  meant  —  I  have  been  unhappy.  No  man 
would  have  been  as  unhappy  as  I  have  been." 

114 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Osmond  smiled  a  little  to  himself,  in  grave  com 
muning.  The  uphill  road  of  his  life  presented  itself  to 
him  as  a  thorny  way  so  hard  that,  if  he  had  foreseen  it 
from  the  beginning,  he  would  have  said  it  was  impos 
sible.  But  at  the  same  instant  he  remembered  where  it 
had  led  him:  he  had  come  out  into  clear  air,  he  was 
resting  in  this  garden  of  delight.  And  she,  too,  was  rest 
ing.  He  knew  that  with  a  perfect  certainty. 

"  We  have  begun  over,"  he  warned  her.  "  We  don't 
have  to  remember.  See  the  moon  driving  along  the 
sky.  We  are  going  with  her,  fast.  Look  at  her,  play 
mate." 

She  looked  up  into  the  sky  where  the  moon  seemed 
to  be  racing  past  more  stable  clouds.  It  was  as  if  their 
spiritual  gaze  met  there,  to  be  welded  into  a  mutual 
compact.  This  was  the  ecstasy  of  silence.  Presently  a 
sound  broke  it,  a  whistle  loud  and  clear  from  the  other 
field.  Osmond  was  at  once  upon  his  feet. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  we  must  go.  There 's  Peter." 

"  But  why  must  we  go  ?  "  She  was  struggling  out  of 
her  trance  of  quietude,  almost  offended  at  his  haste. 

"  Come  with  me.  We  will  meet  him  in  the  field.  It 
is  too  —  too  splendid,  here.  This  is  our  castle  under 
the  tree.  Don't  you  know  it  is  ?  We  can't  ask  anybody 
in  —  not  even  Peter." 

"  Not  even  Peter ! "  She  tried  to  say  it  gayly,  but  a 
quick  sadness  fell  upon  her  as  she  rose  and  went  with 
him  along  the  path.  The  moon  had  gone  into  a  cloud, 
and  a  breath  sprang  up.  The  night  was  cooler.  That 
other  still  langour  of  too  great  emotion  seemed  like 
something  generated  by  their  souls,  and  dissipated 

IW 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

when  they  had  to  come  out  of  the  world  of  their  own 
creating.  All  her  daily  fears  rose  up  before  her  in  an 
ticipation.  She  was  again  alien  here  in  her  own  land, 
and  Electra  was  unkind  to  her.  But  there  was  a  strange 
confidence  and  strength  in  knowing  this  silent  figure 
was  at  her  side. 

"Courage,  playmate,"  he  said,  as  if  he  knew  her 
thought.  "  We  shall  think  this  night  over,  shan't  we  ?  " 

"  Yes.   When  "  —  her  voice  failed  her. 

"Every  night,"  he  said,  with  an  unchanged  assur 
ance  that  amazed  her  like  the  night  itself.  "  I  shall  be 
there  every  night.  If  you  don't  come  —  why,  never 
mind.  If  you  come" — his  voice  stopped,  as  if  some 
thing  choked  it.  Then  he  went  on  heartily,  "  The  house 
will  be  there  under  the  tree,  the  playhouse.  Nobody 
will  see  it  by  day,  you  know.  Nobody '11  run  up  against 
it  by  night.  But  you  've  got  the  key.  There  are  only 
two,  you  know.  You  have  one.  I  have  the  other.  And 
here's  Peter." 

The  whistle  had  come  nearer,  clear  and  pure  now 
like  the  pipe  of  Pan.  Peter  stopped  short. 

"Rose!"  he  cried.    "Osmond!   What  is  it?" 

Some  accident  seemed  to  him  inevitable.  Nothing 
else  could  have  brought  about  this  meeting.  Osmond 
answered,  stopping  as  he  did  so,  when  Peter  turned  to 
join  him. 

"I'll  go  back,  now  you've  come,  Peter.  We  were 
taking  our  walks  abroad.  So  we  met.  Good-night! 
good-night ! " 

It  seemed  a  separate  and  a  different  farewell  to  each 
of  them,  and  he  walked  away.  Peter  stood  staring  after 

116 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

him,  but  Rose  involuntarily  glanced  up  to  heaven  to 
see  if  the  moon,  out  of  her  cloud  now,  would  give  again 
the  radiant  assurance  of  that  other  moment.  She  longed 
passionately  for  an  instant's  meeting  even  so  with  the 
man  who  had  gone.  Then  an  exalted  calm  possessed 
her.  She  and  Peter  were  walking  rather  fast  along  the 
path;  he  had  been  talking  and  she  was  conscious  that 
she  had  not  heard.  Now  a  name  arrested  her. 

"  Had  you  met  him  before  ? "  he  was  asking,  — 
"Osmond?" 

Her  old  habit  of  elusive  courtesy  came  back  to  her. 
She  laughed  a  little. 

"  We  have  n't  really  met  now,  have  we  ? "  she  re 
sponded  pleasantly. 

"  He  said  he  was  afraid  of  you."  Peter  put  it  bluntly, 
out  of  his  curiosity  and  something  else  that  was  not  al 
together  satisfaction.  He  was  not  jealous  of  Osmond. 
He  could  not  be,  more  than  of  a  splendid  tree ;  but  there 
was  a  something  in  the  air  he  did  not  understand.  He 
felt  himself  pushing  angrily  against  it,  as  if  it  were  a 
tangible  obstruction.  "He  was  afraid  of  you,"  he  con 
tinued  blunderingly,  "because  you  are  a  Parisian." 

Rose  laughed  again,  with  that  beguiling  gentle 
ness. 

"But  he  spoke  first,  I  believe,"  she  explained  care 
lessly.  "I  was  walking  along  and  he  asked  me  where 
I  was  going." 

"  What  were  you  talking  about  ?  "  Peter's  voice  amazed 
him,  as  it  did  her.  It  was  rough,  remonstrating,  he 
realized  immediately,  like  the  mood  that  engendered 
it.  He  was  shocked  at  himself  and  glad  she  did  not 

117 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

answer.   Instead,  she  gave  him  her  hand  that  he  might 
help  her  over  the  low  wall. 

"See,"  she  said,  "your  grandmother  has  a  light  in 
her  room.  She  is  lying  in  bed  reading  good  books." 

"  Does  she  read  them  to  you  ?  " 

"  A  little  word  sometimes  when  I  go  in  to  say  good 
night." 

"Grannie's  a  saint." 

"  Yes,  and  better.  She 's  a  beautiful  grannie." 

When  they  stepped  into  the  hall,  Peter,  under  the 
stress  of  his  inexplicable  feeling,  turned  to  look  at  her. 
Instantly  the  eyes  of  the  man  and  of  the  artist  agreed 
in  an  amazed  affirmation.  The  artist  in  Peter  got  the 
better,  and  gave  him  authority. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  bade  her.  *  Stand  there." 

She  obeyed  him,  and  looked  inquiringly  yet  lan 
guidly.  The  angry  man  in  him  told  him  at  once  that 
she  could  obey  because  she  was  indifferent  to  his  reasons 
for  commanding  her.  Out  of  that  indifference  she  stood 
and  looked  at  him,  kind,  friendly,  yet  as  far  from  him 
as  the  remoter  stars.  He  stared  at  her  and  thought  of 
brush  and  canvas.  Never  had  he  seen  a  woman  so  alive. 
Her  eyes,  her  wayward  hair,  her  very  flesh  seemed 
touched  with  flame.  Her  lips  had  softened  into  a  full 
curve,  strange  contrast  to  their  former  patient  sweet 
ness.  The  pupils  of  her  eyes,  distended,  gave  her  face 
a  tragic  power.  As  he  gazed,  that  wild  bright  beauty 
seemed  to  fade.  Her  eyes  lost  their  reminiscent  look  and 
inquired  of  him  sanely.  The  lips  tightened  a  little.  Her 
languor  gave  place  to  a  steady  poise.  Now  she  shook  her 
head  with  a  pretty  motion,  as  if  she  cast  off  memories. 

118 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Do  I  look  nice  to-night?"  she  said  kindly,  as  if 
she  spoke  to  an  admiring  boy.  "  Do  you  want  to  paint 
me?" 

Peter  turned  aside  with  an  exclamation  under  his 
breath.  He  had  never,  again  he  told  himself,  seen  a 
woman  so  alive,  so  radiating  beauty  as  if  it  bloomed 
and  faded  while  he  looked  at  her.  She  was  beginning 
to  mount  the  stairs. 

"  Good-night,"  she  called  back  to  him,  with  her  per 
fect  kindliness.  "  Good-night,  Peter." 


MADAM  FULTON  and  Billy  Stark  sat  in  the 
library,  wrangling. 

"I  say  she'll  come,"  said  Madam  Fulton. 

"I  say  she  won't,"  replied  Billy  with  a  hearty  zest. 
"No  woman  of  self-respect  would." 

"  Maybe  she  has  n't  self-respect." 

"  Oh,  you  go  'way,  Florrie.  Of  course  she  has,  any 
girl  as  pretty  as  that." 

Madam  Fulton  looked  at  him  smilingly.  There  were 
few  left,  nowadays,  to  call  her  Florrie. 

"You  see  Electra  never  in  the  world  would  have 
invited  her,"  she  continued.  "I  simply  did  it,  and  she 
had  to  confirm  it  or  appear  like  a  brute.  Electra  won't 
do  that.  She 's  willing  to  appear  like  a  long  and  sym 
metrical  icicle,  but  not  a  brute." 

That  was  it.  She  had  boldly  asked  Rose  to  luncheon, 
and  then  told  Electra  she  had  done  it.  Now  it  was 
fifteen  minutes  to  the  time,  and  the  hostess  had  not 
appeared.  Madam  Fulton  looked  up  from  her  work. 
There  was  a  laughing  cherub  in  each  eye.  Her  work, 
let  it  be  said,  was  no  work  at  all,  only  a  shuttle  plying 
in  and  out  mysteriously,  and  lyingly  doing  the  deed 
known  as  tatting.  She  usually  tied  knots  and  had  to 
begin  over;  still,  as  she  said,  she  liked  the  motion. 

"  There  was  a  reporter  here  yesterday,"  she  remarked, 
watching  the  effect  on  Billy. 

"The  mischief  there  was!   What  for?" 
120 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"To  see  me.   To  ask  about  the  book." 

"You  didn't  talk  to  him?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  did!" 

"What  did  he  ask  you?" 

"Everything,  nearly.  He  wanted  to  see  the  Aboli 
tionist  letters  I  had  quoted." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  refused.   I  told  him  they  were  sacred." 

"  Did  he  suspect  them  ?   Was  that  his  idea  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  he  wanted  to  reproduce  some  of  the 
signatures.  Then  he  asked  me  about  my  novels." 

"What  about  them?" 

"  How  I  used  to  write  them  —  if  the  characters  were 
taken  from  life.  I  said  every  time." 

"  Florrie,  what  a  pirate  you  are ! " 

"Then  his  eyes  sharpened  up  like  knives,  and  he 
wanted  to  know  about  the  originals.  'Dead,'  I  said, 
*  years  and  years  ago.'  " 

"  You  did  n't  use  to  be  a  freebooter,  Florrie.  You 
were  just  a  bright  girl." 

"  Of  course  I  did  n't.  I  was  walking  Spanish  then. 
I  was  on  my  promotion.  I  always  had  faith  life  would 
do  something  for  me  if  I  'd  speak  pretty  and  hold  out 
my  tier.  I  held  my  tier  a  great  many  years  and  nothing 
dropped  into  it.  I  'm  an  awful  example,  Billy,  of  what 
a  woman  can  become  when  she's  had  no  fun.  This 
may  seem  to  you  insanity.  It  is  n't.  It 's  the  abnormal 
and  monstrous  fruit  of  a  plant  that  was  n't  allowed  to 
mature  at  the  right  time.  I  am  a  mammoth  squash." 

"  What  did  you  tell  him  about  your  novels  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  they  were  n't  written.  They  wrote  them- 
121 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

selves.  My  characters  simply  got  away  from  me  and  did 
things  I  never  dreamed  of.  I  said  they  were  more  alive 
to  me  than  people  of  flesh  and  blood." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  put  in  all  that  ?  " 

"I  know  he  did." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  paper  ?  " 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  have  n't  dared  to  look." 

Billy  Stark  glanced  at  the  floor  as  if  he  wanted  to 
get  down  and  roll.  Then  he  lay  back  in  his  chair  and 
went  gasping  off.  Madam  Fulton  watched  him  seriously, 
that  unquenchable  spark  still  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  can  do  next,"  said  Billy, 
getting  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  "unless  you  be 
come  engaged  to  me." 

Madam  Fulton  laid  down  her  tatting,  to  look  at  him 
in  a  gentle  musing. 

"It  would  plague  Electra,"  she  owned. 

"  Come  on,  Florrie,  come  on !  Get  up  early  to-morrow 
morning,  and  we'll  post  off  and  be  married." 

"  No,"  said  Madam  Fulton  absently,  still  considering, 
"I  don't  want  to  be  married.  Harsh  measures  never 
did  attract  me.  But  I'd  like  very  well  to  be  engaged. 
Tell  you  what,  Billy,  we  could  be  engaged  for  the  sum 
mer,  and  when  you  go  back  to  England  we'll  call  it 
off." 

Billy  rose,  and  possessed  himself  of  one  of  her  hands. 
He  kissed  it  ceremoniously,  and  returned  it  to  its  tatting. 

"  You  do  me  infinite  honor,"  he  announced,  with  more 
gravity  than  she  liked. 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  Don't  get  too  serious,  Billy,"  she  said  quickly.  "  It  '11 
remind  us  of  being  young,  and  mercy  knows  that  is  n't 
what  we  want." 

"May  I  inform  your  granddaughter?"  asked  the 
gentleman  gravely. 

"No,  no,  I'll  do  it.   That's  half  the  fun." 

At  that  moment  Electra  came  in.  She  was  dressed  in 
white,  as  usual,  but  her  ordinary  dignified  simplicity 
seemed  overlaid,  to  the  old  lady's  satirical  gaze,  with  an 
added  smoothness  of  glossy  surfaces.  Her  dress  fell  in 
simple  folds.  She  seemed  to  have  clothed  herself  to 
meet  a  moral  emergency.  Her  face  was  pale  in  its  de 
termination.  She  was  like  a  New  England  maiden  led 
to  sacrifice  and  bound,  at  all  hazards,  to  do  her  con 
science  credit.  Madam  Fulton,  seeing  her,  hardened  her 
heart.  There  were  few  pirouettes  she  would  not  have 
essayed  at  that  moment  to  plague  her  granddaughter. 

"Electra,  my  dear,"  she  said,  in  a  silken  voice,  "we 
have  something  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Stark  and  I.  We  have 
become  engaged." 

Electra  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  not  even  in 
credulity  in  her  gaze,  all  a  reproachful  horror.  Yet 
Electra  did  not  for  a  moment  admit  the  possibility  of  a 
joke  on  such  a  subject.  She  saw  her  grandmother,  as 
she  often  did,  peering  down  paths  that  led  to  madness, 
and  even,  as  in  this  case,  taking  one. 

"Please  do  not  mention  it,"  grandmother  was  saying 
smoothly.  "The  engagement  is  not  to  be  announced  — 
not  yet." 

Electra  could  not  look  at  Billy  Stark,  even  in  reproof. 
The  situation  was  too  intolerable.  And  at  that  moment, 

123 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

flushed  from  her  walk,  eager,  deprecating  as  she  had 
to  be  in  this  unfriendly  spot,  Rose  came  in.  She  went 
straight  to  Madam  Fulton,  as  if  she  were  the  recognized 
head  of  the  house. 

"It  was  so  good  of  you,"  she  said.  "I  am  so  glad  to 
come."  Then  she  turned  to  Electra  and  Billy  Stark 
with  her  quick,  beautiful  smile  and  her  inclusive  greet 
ing.  This  was  not  the  same  woman  who  had  run  away 
to  trysts  under  the  tree,  or  even  the  woman  Peter  had 
seen  when  she  returned,  glowing,  lovely,  as  if  from  a 
bath  of  pleasure.  She  was  the  Parisian,  as  Osmond 
had  perhaps  imagined  her  in  his  jesting  fancy,  regnant, 
subtle,  even  a  little  hard.  Electra  felt  for  a  moment  as 
if  it  were  wise  to  be  afraid  of  her.  But  they  sat  down, 
and  she  essayed  the  safe  remark,  — 

"I  believe  luncheon  is  late." 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself,  my  dear  ?" 
Madam  Fulton  asked  Rose,  who  was  looking  from  one 
to  another  with  an  accessible  brightness,  as  if  she  only 
wanted  a  chance  to  respond  to  everything  beautifully. 
She  bent  a  little,  deferentially,  toward  Madam  Fulton. 

"Reading  aloud  this  morning,"  she  said,  "to  gran 
nie." 

"You  call  her  grannie,  do  you?" 

"I  begged  to.   I  adore  her." 

"Does  she  like  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  she  likes  it,"  Rose  returned,  with  her  lovely 
smile.  "Don't  you  think  she  likes  it?" 

"I  know  she  does.  That's  what  I  can't  understand. 
Every  time  I  hear  Electra  say  'grandmother'  it's  like 
a  nail  in  my  coffin." 

124 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Grandmother!"  exclaimed  Electra,  in  an  instant 
and  quite  honest  deprecation. 

"That's  it,  my  dear,"  nodded  the  old  lady.  "That's 
precisely  it.  Nail  me  down." 

Then  luncheon  was  announced,  and  they  went  out, 
Rose  with  that  instant  deference  toward  Madam  Fulton 
which  suggested  a  hundred  services  while  she  delicately 
refrained  from  doing  one. 

"I  know  you,"  said  the  old  lady  dryly,  after  they  had 
sat  down.  "I  know  quite  well  what  you  are." 

"What,  please?"  asked  Rose,  bending  on  her  that 
warm  look  which  was  yet  never  too  flattering,  and  still 
promised  an  incense  of  personal  regard  not  to  be  spoiled 
by  deeds. 

"I  know  exactly  what  you  are,"  said  the  old  lady, 
with  her  incisive  kindliness.  "You're  a  charmer." 

Instantly  Rose  flushed  all  over  her  face,  a  flooding 
red.  With  the  word  she  remembered  the  other  voice 
out  of  the  moonlit  night,  telling  her  the  same  thing. 
Now  it  was  almost  an  accusation.  Then  it  was  a  caress 
ing  loveliness  of  the  night,  as  if  an  unseen  hand  had 
crowned  her  with  a  chaplet,  dripping  fragrance.  In  that 
instant,  with  a  throb  of  haste  and  longing,  she  was  away 
from  the  circle  of  these  alien  souls,  back  in  the  night 
where  voice  had  answered  voice.  It  was  immediately 
as  if  she  were  hearing  his  call  to  her.  "I  will  come  to 
night,  to-night,"  she  heard  her  heart  repeating.  "Did 
you  wait  for  me  last  night,  dear  playmate,  alone  in  the 
dark  and  stillness?  And  the  night  before?  Did  you 
think  I  was  never  coming  ?  I  will  come  to-night." 

Meantime  Billy  Stark,  seeing  the  blush  and  knowing 
125 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

it  meant  discomfort,  was  pottering  on  in  his  kindly 
optimism,  throwing  himself  into  the  breach,  and  drib 
bling  words  like  rain.  He  talked  of  Paris  and  continental 
life  in  general.  Rose  had  been  everywhere.  She  spoke 
of  traveling  with  her  father  on  his  missions  from  court 
to  court.  When  MacLeod's  name  recurred  upon  her 
lips,  Electra,  who  presided,  still  and  pale,  roused  mo 
mentarily  into  some  show  of  interest.  But  Rose  would 
not  be  led  along  that  road.  For  some  reason  she  refused 
to  speak  freely  of  her  father.  At  a  question,  her  lovely 
lips  would  fix  themselves  in  a  straight  line.  Back  in  the 
library  again,  she  seated  herself  persistently  by  Madam 
Fulton,  like  a  dog  who  has  at  last  discovered  the  person 
friendliest  to  him. 

"Run  away,  Billy,  if  you  like,"  said  the  old  lady 
indulgently.  "You  want  your  cigar  on  the  veranda.  I 
know  you." 

Billy  was  going,  in  humorous  deprecation,  when  there 
was  a  running  step  along  the  veranda,  and  Peter  came 
in  with  a  bound.  And  what  a  Peter!  He  looked  like  a 
runner  —  not  a  spent  one,  either  —  with  the  news  of 
victory.  It  was  in  his  face,  his  flushed  cheeks  and 
flaming  eyes,  but  chiefly  in  the  air  he  brought  with 
him  —  all  tension  and  immoderate  joy.  Electra  held 
her  hands  tight  together  and  looked  at  him.  Rose  got 
half  out  of  her  chair.  In  those  days  when  she  thought 
continually  of  her  own  affairs,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
nothing  could  be  so  important  unless  it  had  to  do  with 
her.  Billy  Stark  by  the  door  waited,  and  it  was  Madam 
Fulton  who  spoke,  irritated  at  the  vague  excitement. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Peter,  what's  the  matter?" 
126 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

He  addressed  himself  at  once  to  Rose. 

"I  have  heard  from  him.   I  have  had  a  letter." 

"From  him!"  She  was  out  of  her  chair  and  facing 
him.  For  the  moment,  with  that  hidden  communion 
with  Osmond  hot  in  her  heart  and  sharp  in  her  ears, 
she  had  almost  cried,  "Osmond !"  But  he  went  on,  — 

"I  have  heard  from  your  father." 

Instantly  the  blood  was  out  of  her  face.  Billy  Stark 
wondered  at  the  aging  grayness,  and  reflected  curiously 
that  youth  is  not  only  a  question  of  flesh  and  blood  but 
of  the  merry  soul.  Peter  could  not  contain  his  pleasure. 
He  cried  out  irrepressibly,  like  the  herald  beside  himself 
with  news, — 

"He  is  coming  here!" 

"Here!"  Rose  made  one  step  to  lay  her  hand  upon 
a  little  cabinet,  and  stood  supporting  herself.  Electra, 
who  caught  the  movement,  looked  at  her  curiously. 
Her  own  enormous  interest  in  Peter's  news  seemed  to 
merge  itself  in  watchful  comment  on  the  other  girl. 

"Here!"  Peter  was  answering.  "To  America!  He 
writes  me  the  most  stirring  letter.  I  did  n't  think  I  knew 
him  so  well.  He  has  so  many  friends  here,  he  says, 
friends  he  never  saw.  He  wants  to  meet  them.  The 
best  of  it  is,  he's  coming  here  —  to  us." 

"Here!"  repeated  Rose  again.  She  seemed  to  be 
sinking  into  herself,  but  the  tense  hand  upon  the  cabinet 
kept  her  firm. 

Peter  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of  innocent  delight. 

"Here,  to  us.  I  told  him  if  he  ever  came  over,  we 
should  grab  him  before  anybody  got  a  hand  on  him. 
I've  told  grannie.  She's  delighted." 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"You  told  him  that!"  Her  voice  held  a  reproach  so 
piercing  that  they  were  all  staring  at  her  in  wonder.  She 
looked  like  a  woman  suffering  some  anguish  too  fierce, 
for  the  moment,  to  be  stilled.  "You've  been  writing 
him!" 

"Of  course,"  said  Peter.  "Why,  of  course,  I  wrote 
him.  I  sent  him  word  when  we  first  got  here,  to  tell  him 
you  were  well." 

"How  could  you!  Oh,  how  could  you!" 

At  her  tone,  the  inexplicable  reproach  of  it,  he  lost 
his  gay  assurance.  Peter  forgot  the  others.  There  was 
nobody  in  the  room,  to  his  eager  consciousness,  but 
Rose  and  his  erring  self ;  for  somehow,  most  innocently, 
he  had  offended  her.  He  took  a  step  toward  her,  his 
boyish  face  all  melted  into  contrition.  There  might  have 
been  tears  in  his  eyes,  they  were  so  soft. 

"Sit  down,"  he  implored  her.  "Rose!  What  have 
I  done?" 

It  was  like  a  sorry  child  asking  pardon.  Electra  gave 
him  a  quick  look,  and  then  went  on  watching.  At  the 
tone  Rose  also  was  recalled.  She  shook  herself  a  little, 
as  if  she  threw  off  dreams.  Her  hand  upon  the  cabinet 
relaxed.  Her  face  softened,  the  pose  of  her  body  yielded, 
She  seemed  almost,  by  some  power  of  the  will,  to  bring 
new  color  into  her  cheeks.  Peter  had  drawn  forward 
her  chair,  and  she  took  it  smilingly. 

"I'm  not  accustomed  to  long-lost  fathers  appearing 
unannounced,"  she  said  whimsically.  "Dear  me !  What 
if  he  brings  me  a  Paris  gown!" 

But  Peter  was  standing  before  her,  still  with  an  air 
of  deep  solicitude. 

128 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  It  was  a  shock,  was  n't  it  ? "  he  kept  repeating. 
"What  a  duffer  I  am!" 

"It  was  a  shock,"  said  Electra,  with  an  incisive  con 
firmation.  "Mayn't  I  get  you  something?  A  glass  of 
wine?" 

Rose  looked  at  her  quite  pleasantly  before  Peter  had 
time  to  begin  his  persuasive  recommendation  that  she 
should  spare  herself. 

"Let  me  take  you  home,"  he  was  urging. 

It  was  as  if  Rose  had  been  drawing  draughts  from 
some  deep  reservoir,  and  now  she  had  enough  to  carry 
her  on  to  victory. 

"No,  no,  Peter,"  she  denied  him.  "I  won't  go  home. 
Thank  you,  Electra,"  —  a  delicate  frown  wrinkled 
Electra's  brows.  The  girl  had  never  used  her  familiar 
name  before  — "  thank  you,  I  won't  have  any  wine. 
Well,  my  father  is  coming.  Let's  hope  he  won't  turn 
the  country  upside  down,  and  keep  the  trains  from 
running.  Get  in  your  supplies,  all  of  you.  He  may 
instigate  a  strike,  and  if  the  larder  is  n't  full,  you'll 
starve." 

"Stop  the  trains?"  repeated  Electra,  who  was  not 
imaginative.  "Why  should  he  stop  the  trains?" 

"Ah,  Miss  Fulton,  you  don't  know  my  father,"  Rose 
answered  gayly.  She  had  seen  that  tiny  frown  punc 
tuating  her  first  familiarity,  and  took  warning  by  it. 
"Don't  you  know  how,  in  great  gardens,  you  can  take 
a  key  and  turn  on  the  fountains  ?  Well,  my  father  can 
turn  on  strikes  in  the  same  manner.  He  has  the  key  in 
his  pocket." 

Electra  warmed,  in  spite  of  herself. 
129 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"I  should  like"  —  she  hesitated. 

"You'd  like  to  see  him  do  it?  You  may.  Perhaps 
you  will.  We'll  sit  in  a  circle  and  point  our  thumbs 
down  and  all  the  bloated  capitalists  shall  go  in  and  be 
killed."  She  was  talking,  at  random,  out  of  a  tension 
she  might  not  explain.  Billy  Stark,  the  coolest  of  them, 
saw  that  Madam  Fulton  had  some  vague  inkling  of  it. 
Billy,  as  usual,  began  talking,  but  Rose  had  risen. 
Having  proved  her  composure,  she  was  going.  She 
listened  to  Billy  with  smiling  interest,  and  then  when 
he  had  finished,  humorously  and  inconsequently,  nod 
ded  concurrence  at  him  and  said  good-by.  She  had  a 
few  pretty  words  for  Madam  Fulton,  a  gracious  look 
for  Electra,  and  she  was  gone,  Peter  beside  her.  Billy 
Stark  followed  and  stayed  on  the  veranda  with  his  cigar. 
But  Electra  remained  facing  her  grandmother.  She 
looked  at  her,  not  so  much  in  triumph  as  with  a  fixed 
determination.  Suddenly  Madam  Fulton  became  aware 
of  her  glance  and  answered  it  irritably. 

"For  mercy's  sake,  Electra,  what  is  it?" 

Then  Electra  spoke,  turning  away,  as  if  the  smoulder 
ing  satisfaction  of  her  tone  must  not  betray  itself  in 
her  face. 

"Do  you  realize  what  this  means?" 

"What  what  means?" 

"She  is  terrified  at  his  coming  —  Markham  Mac 
Leod's." 

"Well,  you  don't  know  Markham  MacLeod.  Per 
haps  if  you  did,  you  'd  be  terrified  yourself." 

"But  his  daughter,  grandmother,  a  girl  who  calls 
herself  his  daughter!" 

130 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Madam  Fulton  stared. 

"Don't  you  believe  that  either?"  she  inquired. 
"Don't  you  believe  she  is  his  daughter?" 

"Not  for  a  moment."  Electra  had  turned  and  was 
walking  toward  the  door,  all  her  white  draperies  con 
tributing  to  the  purity  of  her  aspect. 

Madam  Fulton  continued,  in  the  same  inadequacy 
of  amaze,  — 

"But  Peter  knows  it.    He  knew  them  together." 

"Peter  knew  her  with  Tom,"  said  Electra  conclu 
sively.  "One  proof  is  worth  as  much  as  the  other." 

At  the  door  she  turned,  almost  a  beseeching  look 
upon  her  face,  as  she  remembered  another  shock  that 
had  been  dealt  her. 

"Grandmother!"  she  said. 

"Well!" 

"You  spoke  of  Mr.  Stark—  " 

The  old  lady's  thought  went  traveling  back.  Then 
her  face  lighted. 

"Oh,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  know.  I'm  engaged  to 
Billy." 

"Grandmother  — "  Electra  blushed  a  little,  painfully 
—  "You  can't  mean  —  grandmother,  are  you  going  to 
marry  him?" 

Madam  Fulton  laid  her  head  back  upon  the  small 
silk  pillow  of  her  chair.  She  never  owned  to  it,  but 
sometimes  the  dull  hour  after  luncheon  brought  with 
it  a  drowsiness  she  was  ceasing  to  combat.  She  smiled 
at  Electra,  who  seemed  very  far  away  from  her  through 
the  veil  of  that  approaching  slumber  and  through  the 
years  that  separated  them. 

131 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"We  shan't  marry  at  once,  Electra,"  she  said,  drop 
ping  off  while  the  girl  looked  at  her.  "Not  at  once.  I 
expect  to  have  a  good  many  little  affairs  before  I  settle 
down." 


XI 

ON  the  way  back  to  the  house,  Peter  kept  looking 
solicitously  at  Rose,  breaking  now  and  then  into 
quick  regrets. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  he  asked  her,  in  his  impetuous 
stammer.  "  Should  n't  I  have  written  to  your  father  ? 
Rose,  what  have  I  done  ?  " 

She  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  Her  face  had  a  strained 
expression,  the  old  look  he  remembered  from  the  days 
of  Tom's  illness  and  her  not  quite  natural  grief.  Then 
she  had  never  given  way  to  the  irrepressible  warmth  of 
sorrow,  like  a  loving  wife.  She  had  seemed  to  harden 
herself,  and  that  he  accounted  for  by  his  knowledge 
of  Tom's  hideous  past.  The  woman  had  known  him, 
Peter  reflected,  from  illuminating  intercourse,  and  his 
death  meant  chiefly  the  turning  of  a  blotted  page.  But 
now !  over  her  bloom  of  youth  was  the  same  shadowing 
veil.  She  was  not  so  much  a  woman  moved  by  strong 
emotion  as  made  desperate  through  hidden  causes. 
Still  he  besought  her  to  forgive  him,  finally  to  look  at 
him.  Then  she  wakened. 

"It's  all  right,  Peter,"  she  said  absently.  "It  had  to 
be." 

But  still  he  saw  no  reason  for  her  blight  and  pain. 
It  was  not  merely  incredible,  it  was  impossible  that  any 
one  should  shrink  because  Markham  MacLeod  was 
coming.  At  the  door  she  did  look  at  him.  He  was 

133 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

shocked  at  the  drooping  sadness  of  her  face.  Yet  she 
was  smiling. 

"Don't  bother,  Peter,"  she  said.  "You've  done 
nothing  wrong,  nothing  whatever." 

Then  she  went  up  the  stairs,  and  Peter,  after  watch 
ing  the  last  glimmer  of  her  dress,  strode  away  into  the 
orchard  and  threw  himself  on  the  grass.  Thoughts 
not  formulated,  emotions  one  yeast  of  unrest  went 
surging  through  him,  until  he  felt  himself  a  riot  of 
forces  he  could  not  control.  It  was  youth  that  moved 
him,  his  own  ungoverned  youth,  but  it  seemed  to  him 
life,  and  that  all  life  was  like  it.  Peter  thought  he  had 
experienced  enormously  because  he  had  lived  in  Paris 
and  painted  pictures.  Yet  he  had  never  governed  his 
course  of  being.  It  had  been  done  for  him.  The  greatest 
impression  it  had  made  on  him  thus  far  was  of  the  ex 
treme  richness  of  things.  There  was  so  much  of  every 
thing  !  He  was  young.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  time, 
and  if  he  did  not  paint  his  pictures  this  year,  he  could 
do  it  next.  There  were  infinite  possibilities.  He  had 
ease  and  talent  and  power.  He  had,  even  so  far,  won 
laurels  enough  to  be  a  little  careless  of  them.  Since  he 
had  by  the  happy  pains  of  art  got  so  much  out  of  life, 
he  made  no  doubt  that  by  superlative  efforts,  which 
he  meant  to  make  in  that  divine  future  where  the  sun 
was  always  shining,  he  should  set  all  the  rivers  afire. 
There  was  money  enough,  too.  He  had  never  lacked 
it,  thanks  to  old  Osmond's  thrift,  Osmond  who  did  not 
need  it  himself  in  the  ordinary  ways  of  man.  He  found 
such  pure  fun  in  the  pleasures  money  bought  that  there 
was  a  separate  luxury  in  giving  it  up,  turning  it  in  to  the 

134 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

sum  of  things,  and  living  straitly  that  labor  might  take 
some  ease. 

And  here  he  lay  on  the  grass,  youth  seething  within 
him  and  pointing  like  a  drunken  guide,  a  vine-crowned 
reveler,  to  a  myriad  paths,  all  wonderful.  His  mind 
wandered  to  Rose  and  settled  there  in  a  delighted 
acquiescence.  He  had  never  before  given  himself 
wholly  up  to  her  spell,  but  now,  whether  the  summer 
day  beguiled  him,  or  whether  her  mysterious  trouble 
moved  him,  he  thought  of  her  until  they  seemed  to  be 
alone  together  on  the  earth,  —  and  that  was  happiness. 
Beauty!  that  was  what  she  meant  to  him,  he  told  him 
self  when  thought  was  at  last  uppermost,  and  not  mere 
passionate  feeling.  She  was  delight  and  harmony,  and 
allegiance  to  her  was  like  worship  of  the  world. 

When  he  got  out  of  his  dream  and  went  in  to  dinner 
with  the  noon  sun  upon  his  burning  face,  she  was  on 
the  veranda  with  grannie,  a  little  pale  still,  but  sweet 
and  responsive  in  the  quiet  ways  she  had  for  every  day. 
Peter,  looking  at  her,  felt  the  sun  go  out  of  his  blood, 
and  the  mad  worship  of  that  hour  in  the  orchard  seemed 
like  a  past  bacchanal  rout  and  triumph  when  the  wor 
shipers  go  home  to  feed  the  flocks.  His  will,  recalled, 
took  him  by  swift  revulsion  to  Electra,  but  it  could  not 
make  the  journey  welcome.  She  seemed  to  be  far  away 
on  some  barren  plain  at  the  top  of  climbing.  Rose,  too, 
was  far  away,  but  the  mountain  where  she  lived  was  full 
of  springs  and  blossomy  slopes,  and  at  the  top  the 
muses  and  the  graces  danced  and  laughed.  There  were 
flying  feet  always,  the  gleam  of  draperies,  the  fall  of 
melody,  —  always  pleasures  and  the  hint  of  pleasures 

135 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

higher  still,  —  and  echoes  from  old  joys  tasted  by  gods 
and  nymphs  in  the  childhood  of  the  world.  The  way 
there,  too,  was  hard,  but  what  would  the  path  matter 
to  such  blisses  of  the  mind  and  soul?  In  his  daze  he 
became  aware  that  grannie  was  looking  at  him  kindly. 

"I  guess  you've  been  asleep,"  said  she. 

"  He 's  been  dreaming,  too,"  said  Rose,  in  her  intimate 
kindliness,  always  the  same  to  him  as  if  he  were  a  boy 
with  whom  she  had  a  tender  and  confident  relation. 

Peter  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"I  got  lost,"  he  said  ruefully.  "I  went  up  on  the 
mountain  and  got  lost." 

"  I  guess  you  dreamed  it,"  said  grannie.  "  Come,  let 's 
have  our  dinner ; "  and  they  went  in  together,  both  the 
young  things  helping  her. 

Peter  reflected  that  Rose  had  not  even  heard  what 
he  said.  She  did  not  care  what  the  mountain  was,  or 
whether  he  was  lost.  But  at  the  table,  while  grannie 
talked  about  gardening  and  the  things  Osmond  meant 
to  do  another  year,  and  Rose  glanced  up  with  involun 
tary  question  in  her  eyes  whenever  Osmond's  name 
was  mentioned,  he  seemed  to  have  the  vision  of  the 
mountain  again  before  him  and  to  hear  the  laughter  and 
the  sound  of  dancing  feet.  The  picture,  little  by  little, 
faded  and  would  not  be  recalled,  and  by  afternoon  it 
had  quite  gone.  Sobered,  his  feet  on  the  earth  again,  he 
went  away  in  the  early  evening,  to  see  Electra. 

Rose  waited  until  the  dark  had  really  fallen  and 
evening  sounds  had  begun.  Then  she  stole  out  of  the 
house  and,  a  black  cloak  about  her,  this  time,  went 
across  the  fields  to  the  oak  tree.  At  a  little  distance 

136 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

from  it  she  paused,  her  heart  too  imperious  to  let  her 
speak  and  find  out  whether  he  was  there.  But  when  she 
was  about  to  venture  it,  a  voice  came  from  under  the 
tree. 

"  Don't  stay  there,  playmate.   Come  into  the  house." 

Then  she  went  on. 

"  Where  are  you  ?  "  she  asked.  There  was  an  eloquent 
quiver  in  her  voice. 

"  Never  mind.  I  'm  in  the  house.  Stop  where  you  are. 
There  's  a  little  throne.  I  made  it  for  you." 

She  had  her  hand  on  the  back  of  a  rough  chair.  At 
once  she  seated  herself. 

"  I  never  heard  of  a  throne  in  a  playhouse,"  she  said, 
with  that  new  merriment  he  made  for  her. 

"You  never  saw  a  playhouse  just  like  this.  That's  a 
beautiful  throne.  It  fits  together  like  a  chair.  It 's  here 
in  the  playhouse  by  night,  but  before  daylight  I  draw 
it  up  into  the  tree  and  hide  it." 

"What  if  somebody  finds  it?" 

"They'll  think  it's  a  chair." 

"What  if  they  break  it?" 

"  That 's  easy.  We  '11  make  another.  There 's  nothing 
so  easy  as  to  make  a  throne  for  a  playhouse,  if  you  know 
the  way.  Well,  playmate,  how  have  you  been,  all  this 
long  time  ?  " 

When  she  came  across  the  field  she  had  meant  to  tell 
him  how  sad  she  was,  how  perplexed,  how  incapable  of 
meeting  the  ills  confronting  her.  But  immediately  it 
became  unnecessary,  and  she  only  laughed  and  said,  — 

"  It  has  n't  been  a  long  time  at  all." 

"Has  n't  it?   Oh,  I  thought  it  had!" 
137 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  Have  you  been  here  every  night  ?  " 

"  Every  night." 

"But  it  rained." 

"  I  know  it,  outside.  It  does  n't  rain  in  a  playhouse." 

"Did  you  truly  come?" 

"Of  course.  What  did  I  tell  you?  I  said  *  every 
night.' " 

"  Did  you  have  an  umbrella  ?  " 

"  An  umbrella  in  a  playhouse  ?  You  make  me  laugh." 

"  You  must  have  got  wet  through." 

"  Not  always.  Sometimes  I  climbed  up  in  the  branches 
—  in  the  roof,  I  mean.  You  're  eclipsed  to-night,  are  n't 
you  ? " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  dark  cloak.  The  other  night  you  were  a  white 
goddess  sitting  there  in  the  moonlight.  You  were  ter 
ribly  beautiful  then.  It's  almost  a  shame  to  be  so  beau 
tiful.  This  is  better.  I  rather  like  the  cloak.  You  're 
nothing  but  a  voice  to-night,  coming  out  of  the  dark." 

Immediately  she  had  a  curious  jealousy  of  the  white 
dress  that  made  her  beautiful  to  him  when  he  did  not 
really  know  her  face. 

"  You  have  never  seen  me,"  she  said  involuntarily. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  have.  In  the  shack,  that  night.  Then  the 
day  you  came.  I  saw  you  driving  by." 

"  Where  were  you  ?  " 

"In  the  yard  looking  at  some  grafted  trees.  Peter 
was  late  from  the  train.  I  got  impatient,  so  I  went 
round  fussing  over  the  trees,  to  keep  myself  busy.  Then 
you  came  up  the  drive,  and  I  saw  you  and  retreated  in 
good  order." 

138 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  You  need  n't  have  hated  me  so.  You  had  n't  really 
seen  me." 

"  I  saw  enough.  I  saw  your  cheek  and  one  ear  and 
the  color  of  your  hair.  Take  care,  playmate,  you 
must  n't  do  that." 

"What?" 

"  You  must  n't  say  I  hated  you.  You  know  it  was  n't 
hate." 

Some  daring  prompted  her  to  ask,  "What  was  it, 
then  ?  "  but  she  folded  her  hands  and  crossed  her  feet 
in  great  contentment  and  was  still. 

"Tell  me  things,"  she  heard  him  saying. 

"What  things?  About  the  house  up  there?  About 
grannie  ?  About  Peter  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  I  know  all  about  grannie  and  Peter.  Tell 
me  things  I  never  could  know  unless  we  were  here  in 
the  playhouse,  in  the  dark." 

Her  mind  went  off,  at  that,  to  the  wonder  of  it.  She 
was  here  in  strange  circumstances,  and  of  all  the  occur 
rences  of  her  life,  it  seemed  the  most  natural.  Imme 
diately  she  had  the  warmest  curiosity,  the  desire  that 
he  should  talk  inordinately  and  tell  her  all  the  things  he 
had  done  to-day,  yesterday,  all  the  days. 

"You  tell,"  she  said.  "Begin  at  the  beginning,  and 
tell  me  about  your  life." 

"Why,  playmate!"  His  voice  had  even  a  sorrowful 
reproach.  "There's  nothing  in  it.  Nothing  at  all.  I 
have  only  dug  in  the  ground  and  made  things  grow." 

"  What  people  have  you  known  ?  " 

"  Grannie." 

"She  is  n't  people." 

139 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"She's  my  people.  She's  all  there  is,  except  Peter, 
and  he  has  n't  been  here." 

Something  like  jealousy  possessed  her.  She  was  stung 
by  her  own  ignorance. 

"  But  there  are  lots  of  years  when  we  did  n't  meet," 
she  said. 

"Lots  of  them.  But  I  don't  care  anything  about 
them.  I  told  you  so  the  other  night." 

"  Don't  you  care  about  mine  ?  " 

"Not  a  bit." 

She  was  lightheaded  with  the  joy  of  it.  There  were 
things  she  need  not  tell  him. 

"  Not  the  years  before  we  met  ?  "  Then  because  she 
was  a  woman,  she  had  to  spoil  the  cup.  "  Nor  the  years 
after  I  go  away  ?  " 

"No,  not  the  years  when  you've  gone  away.  You 
can't  take  this  night  with  you,  nor  the  other  night." 

He  had  hurt  her. 

"  That 's  enough,  then  —  a  memory." 

Osmond  laughed  a  little.  It  was  a  tender  sound,  as 
if  he  might  scold  her,  but  not  meaning  it. 

"You  mustn't  be  naughty,"  he  said.  "There's  no 
thing  naughtier  in  a  playhouse  than  saying  what  is  n't 
true.  You  know  if  you  go  away  you  '11  come  back  again. 
You  can't  help  it.  It  may  be  a  long  time  first.  You 
were  twenty-five  years  in  coming  this  time.  But  you  '11 
have  to  come.  You  know  that,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  gravely,  "I  know  that."  Then  the 
memory  of  her  wandering  life  and  the  sore  straits  of  it 
voiced  itself  in  one  cry,  "I  don't  want  to  go.  I  want 
to  stay." 

140 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  Stay,  dear  playmate,"  said  the  other  voice.  "  There 
never  will  be  a  night  when  I'm  not  here.  Is  the  play 
house  key  in  your  hand,  all  tight  and  warm  ?  1  wear 
mine  round  my  neck.  We  shan't  lose  them." 

Immediately  she  felt  that  she  must  tell  him  her  new 
trouble. 

"My  father  is  coming  here,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Ah!"  he  answered  quickly.   "You  won't  like  that." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  From  what  you  said  the  other  night.  You  don't  like 
him." 

"  Is  it  dreadful  to  you,  if  I  don't  like  my  father  ?  " 

She  put  it  anxiously,  with  timidity,  and  he  an 
swered,  — 

"It's  inevitable.    He  has  n't  treated  you  well." 

She  was  staring  at  him  through  the  darkness,  though 
she  could  see  nothing. 

"You  are  a  wizard,"  she  said,  "a  wizard.  Why  do 
you  say  he  has  not  treated  me  well  ?  " 

"  Because  I  see  how  you  hate  him.  You  would  never 
hate  without  reason.  You  are  all  gentleness.  You 
know  you  are.  You  'd  go  on  your  knees  to  the  man  that 
was  your  father,  and  beg  him  to  be  good  enough  so 
you  could  love  him.  And  if  you  could  n't  —  George ! 
that  settles  him.  Why,  playmate,  you  're  not  crying ! " 

She  was  crying  softly  to  herself.  But  for  a  little  un- 
considered  sniff  he  need  not  have  known  it. 

"  I  like  to  cry,"  she  said,  in  a  moment.  "  I  like  to  cry 
—  like  this."  * 

"It's  awful,"  said  the  other  voice,  apparently  to 
141 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

itself,  "to  make  you  cry  and  not  know  how  to  stop 
you.  Don't  do  it,  playmate!" 

She  laughed  then. 

"  I  won't  cry,"  she  promised.  "  But  if  you  knew  ho\* 
pleasant  it  is  when  it  only  means  somebody  understands 
and  likes  you  just  as  well  — " 

"  Better,"  said  the  voice.  "  I  always  like  you  better. 
Whatever  you  do,  that 's  the  effect  it  has.  Now  let 's 
talk  about  your  father.  We  can't  stop  his  coming  ?  " 

"No.   Nobody  ever  stopped  him  yet  in  anything." 

"  Then  what  can  we  do  to  him  after  he  gets  here  ?  " 

"That  's  what  I  am  trying  to  think.  Sometimes 
I  'm  afraid  I  must  run  away  —  before  he  comes." 

"Yes,  playmate,  if  you  think  so."  There  was  some 
thing  sharp  in  the  tone :  a  quick  hurt,  a  premonition  of 
pain,  and  it  was  soothing  to  her. 

"But  I've  so  little  money."  She  said  that  to  herself, 
and  his  answer  shocked  her. 

"  There  's  money,  if  that 's  all.  I  '11  bury  it  here  under 
a  stone,  and  you  shall  find  it." 

"  No !  no !  no !  How  could  you !  oh,  how  could  you ! " 

The  voice  was  hurt  indeed  now,  and  willing  to  be 
thought  so. 

"Why,  playmate,  is  that  so  dreadful?  Money's  the 
least  important  thing  there  is." 

"  It  is  important,"  said  she  broodingly.  "  It  seems  to 
me  all  my  miseries,  my  disgraces  have  come  from 
that." 

"  You  don't  want  to  tell  me  about  them  ?  You  don't 
think  it  would  make  them  better  ?  " 

"  You  said  you  did  n't  care.  You  said  what  we  had 
142 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

lived  through  —  what  I  had  —  these  twenty-five  years, 
made  no  difference!" 

"  Not  to  me.  But  when  it  comes  to  you,  why,  maybe 
I  could  help  you." 

She  thought  a  while  and  then  answered  definitely 
and  coldly,  — 

"  No,  I  can't  do  it.  I  should  have  to  tell  —  too  many 
things." 

"  Then  we  won't  think  of  it,"  said  the  voice.  "  Only 
you  must  remember,  there 's  money  and  there 's  — 
Peter  to  take  you  off  and  hide  you  somewhere.  You  can 
trust  Peter."  Again  he  seemed  ready  to  break  their 
companionship,  and  she  wondered  miserably. 

"  You  seem  to  think  of  nothing  but  my  going  away." 

"  I  must  think  of  it.  Nothing  is  more  likely." 

"You  don't  seem  to  care!" 

"  Playmate ! "  Again  the  voice  reproached  her. 

"Well!" 

"  There 's  but  one  thing  I  think  of  —  really.  To  give 
you  a  little  bit  of  happiness  while  you  are  here.  After 
that  —  well,  you  can  make  the  picture  for  yourself.  I 
shall  come  to  the  playhouse  every  night  —  alone." 

The  one  thing  perhaps  that  had  been  the  strongest  in 
guiding  her  romantic  youth  had  been  eternal  faithful 
ness.  Her  heart  beat  at  the  word  "  forever."  Now  her 
gratitude  outran  his  calm. 

"Will  you  do  it?"   she  cried. 

"Shall  I  promise?" 

"  No !  no !  I  would  not  have  you  do  it  really  —  only 
want  to  do  it.  Do  you  think  you  will  remember  —  to 
want  to  come  ?  " 

143 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

He  said  the  words  after  her,  so  slowly  that  they 
seemed  to  come  from  lips  set  with  some  stern  emotion. 

"  I  shall  remember.   I  shall  want  to  come." 

She  rose. 

"Good-night,"  she  said.   "Shake  hands?" 

"No,"  said  the  voice,  "not  that.  In  playhouses  you 
can't  shake  hands.  Good-night  —  dear  lady." 

She  turned  away,  and  then,  because  she  was  silent 
the  voice  called  after  her,  — 

"Playmate!" 

"Yes." 

"  I  shall  follow  you  to  the  wall  and  watch  you  home. 
You're  not  afraid?" 

"No,  I'm  not  afraid." 

"  And  you  're  almost  happy  ?  " 

At  the  anxiety  in  his  voice,  she  was  unreasonably 
happy. 

"Yes,"  she  called  back.   "Good-night." 

"Got  the  key  safe?" 

"All  safe.   Good-night." 

"God  bless  you,  playmate."  That  was  what  she 
thought  she  heard. 


XII 

MADAM  FULTON  was  at  the  library  table,  con 
sidering  her  morning  mail,  and  Billy  Stark  sat 
on  the  veranda  just  outside  the  window  where  she  could 
call  to  him  and  be  cheerfully  answered.  Presently 
Electra  came  in,  a  book,  a  pencil,  and  some  slips  of 
paper  in  her  hand.  There  was  intense  consideration  on 
her  brow.  She  had  on,  her  grandmother  thought  with 
discouragement,  her  clubwoman's  face.  Billy  Stark, 
seeing  her,  got  up  and  with  his  cigar  and  his  newspaper 
wandered  away.  He  had  some  compassion  for  Electra 
and  her  temperament,  though  not  for  that  could  he 
abstain  from  the  little  observances  due  his  engagement 
to  Madam  Fulton.  He  had  a  way  of  bringing  in  a  flower 
from  the  garden  and  presenting  it  to  the  old  lady  with 
an  exaggerated  significance.  Electra  always  winced, 
but  Madam  Fulton  was  delighted.  He  called  her 
"  Florrie,"  prettily,  and  "  Florrie,  dear."  Again  Electra 
shrank,  and  then  he  took  the  wrinkled  hand.  One  day 
Madam  Fulton  looked  up  at  him  with  a  droll  mischief 
in  her  eyes. 

"  I  suppose  it 's  an  awful  travesty,  is  n't  it,  Billy  ?  " 

"  Not  for  me,"  said  Billy  loyally.   "  Can't  I  be  in  love 
with  a  woman  at  the  end  of  fifty  years  ?  I  should  smile." 

"It's  great  fun,"  she  owned.    Then  more  than  half 
in  earnest,  "  Billy,  do  you  suppose  I  shall  go  to  hell  ?  " 

This  morning  Electra  had  found  something  to  puzzle 
her. 

145 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I've  been  working  on  your  book  a  little,  grand 
mother,"  she  began. 

"What  book?  My  soul  and  body!"  The  old  lady 
saw  the  cover  and  laid  down  her  pen.  "That's  my 
'Recollections.'  What  are  you  doing  with  that?" 

"They  are  extremely  interesting,"  said  Electra 
absorbedly.  She  sat  down  and  laid  her  notes  aside,  to 
run  over  a  doubtful  page.  "We  are  going  to  have  an 
inquiry  meeting  on  it." 

"We?   Who?" 

"The  club.  Everybody  was  deeply  disappointed 
because  you  've  refused  to  say  anything;  but  it  occurred 
to  us  we  might  give  an  afternoon  to  classifying  data  in 
it,  naming  people  you  just  refer  to,  you  know.  I  am 
doing  the  Brook  Farm  section." 

Madam  Fulton  sank  back  in  her  chair  and  looked 
despairingly  from  the  window  for  Billy  Stark. 

"I  shall  never,"  she  said,  "hear  the  last  of  that 
book!" 

"  Why  should  you  wish  to  hear  the  last  of  it  ?  "  asked 
Electra.  "  It  is  a  very  valuable  book.  It  would  be  more 
so  if  you  would  only  be  frank  about  it.  But  I  can  under 
stand  that.  I  told  the  club  it  was  your  extreme  delicacy. 
You  simply  could  n't  mention  names." 

"  No,  I  could  n't,"  murmured  the  old  lady.  "  I 
could  n't." 

"But  here  is  something,  grandmother.  You  must 
help  me  out  here.  Here  where  you  talk  about  the  crazy 
philanthropist  who  had  the  colonization  scheme  —  not 
Liberia  —  no,  that 's  farther  on  —  Well,  you  say  he 
came  to  grandfather  and  asked  him  to  give  something 

146 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

to  the  fund."   She  was  regarding  Madam  Fulton  with 
clear  eyes  of  interrogation. 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  remember,"  said  the  old  lady  impa 
tiently.  "Well,  goon." 

"  You  don't  remember  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course  I  remember,  in  a  way.  But  go  on, 
Electra." 

"Well,  then  the  philanthropist  asked  him  to  be  one 
of  the  five  men  who  would  guarantee  a  certain  sum  at 
their  death,  and  grandfather  was  indignant  and  said, 
'  Charity  begins  at  home.'  Listen."  She  found  her  page 
and  read,  '"I  shall  assuredly  leave  every  inch  of  ground 
and  every  cent  I  possess  to  my  wife,  and  that,  not  be 
cause  she  is  an  advanced  woman  but  because  she  is 
not.' " 

"  Of  course ! "  corroborated  the  old  lady.  "  Precisely. 
There's  a  slap  at  suffrage.  That's  what  I  mean  it  for, 
and  you  can  tell  'em  so." 

Electra  did  not  stop  to  register  her  pain  at  that.  She 
held  up  one  hand  to  enjoin  attention. 

"  But  listen,  grandmother.  You  don't  see  the  bearing 
of  it  yet.  That  was  five  years  after  grandfather  made 
his  will,  leaving  this  place  away  from  you." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"Five  years  after,  grandmother!  And  here,  by  his 
expressed  intention,  he  meant  to  leave  it  to  you  —  not 
to  his  son,  but  you.  Do  you  see  what  that  implies  ? " 

"I  don't  know  what  it  implies,"  said  the  old  lady, 
"  but  I  know  I  shall  fly  all  to  pieces  in  about  two  minutes 
if  you  don't  stop  winding  me  up  and  asking  me  ques 
tions." 

147 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Electra  answered  quite  solemnly,  — 

"  It  means,  grandmother,  that  legally  I  inherited  this 
place.  Ethically  it  belongs  to  you.  My  grandfather 
meant  to  make  another  will.  Here  is  his  expressed  in 
tention.  He  neglected  doing  it,  as  people  are  always 
neglecting  things  that  may  be  done  at  any  time.  It  only 
remains  for  me  to  make  it  over  to  you." 

Madam  Fulton  lay  back  in  her  chair  for  a  moment 
and  stared.  She  seemed  incapable  of  measuring  the 
irony  she  felt.  But  Electra  went  quietly  on,  — 

"There  is  simply  nothing  else  for  me  to  do,  and  I 
shall  do  it." 

Madam  Fulton  gasped  a  little  and  then  gave  up 
speaking.  Again  she  glanced  at  the  window  and  wished 
for  Billy  Stark.  Electra  was  observing  her  compassion 
ately. 

"It  excites  you,  doesn't  it?"  she  was  saying.  "I 
don't  wonder." 

Now  the  old  lady  found  her  tongue,  but  only  to 
murmur,  — 

"  I  can't  even  laugh.  It 's  too  funny ;  it 's  too  awfully 
funny." 

"  Let  me  get  you  a  little  wine."  Electra  had  put  her 
papers  together  and  now  she  rose. 

Then  Madam  Fulton  found  her  strength. 

"Sit  down,  Electra,"  she  said.  "Why,  child,  you 
don't  realize  —  I  don't  know  what  you  'd  do  if  you  did 
—  you  don't  realize  I  put  that  in  there  by  the  merest 
impulse." 

"Of  course,"  said  Electra  kindly.  "I  understand 
that.  You  never  dreamed  of  its  having  any  bearing  on 

148 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

things  as  they  are  now,  they  have  gone  on  in  this  way 
so  long.  But  it  would  be  shocking  to  me,  shocking,  to 
seem  to  own  this  house  when  it  is  yours  —  ethically." 

"  Don't  say  ethically.  I  can't  stand  it.  There,  Elec- 
tra!  you're  a  good  girl.  I  know  that.  But  you 're  con 
science  gone  mad.  You  've  read  George  Eliot  till  you  're 
not  comfortable  unless  you're  renouncing  something. 
Take  things  a  little  more  lightly.  You  can  if  you  give 
your  mind  to  it.  Now  this  —  this  is  nothing  but  a  joke. 
You  have  my  word  for  it." 

"It  is  n't  a  joke,"  said  Electra  firmly,  "when  grand 
father  could  write  that  over  his  own  signature  and  send 
it  to  a  well-known  person.  How  did  it  come  back  into 
your  hands,  grandmother  ?  " 

But  Madam  Fulton  looked  at  her,  wondering  what 
asylum  Electra  would  put  her  in,  if  she  knew  the  truth. 
She  essayed  a  miserable  gayety. 

"Very  well,  Electra,"  she  smiled,  "call  it  so,  if  you 
like,  but  we  won't  say  any  more  about  it.  I  can't  have 
houses  made  over  to  me.  I  may  totter  into  the  grave 
to-morrow." 

Electra' s  eyes  went  involuntarily  to  the  garden  where 
Billy  Stark  was  placidly  walking  up  and  down,  smoking 
his  cigar  and  stopping  now  and  then  to  inspect  a  flower. 
The  old  lady  interpreted  the  look. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  said  wickedly;  "but  that's 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  Besides,  if  I  marry  Billy  Stark,  I 
shall  go  to  London  to  live.  What  do  I  want  of  houses  ? 
Let  things  be  as  they  are,  Electra.  You  keep  the  house 
in  your  hands  and  let  me  visit  you,  just  as  I  do  now. 
It's  all  one." 

149 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Electra  spoke  with  an  unmoved  firmness.  Her  face 
had  the  clarity  of  a  great  and  fixed  resolve. 

"  The  house  is  yours ;  not  legally,  I  own,  but  —  " 

"  Don't  you  say  ethically  again,  Electra,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "  I  told  you  I  could  n't  bear  it." 

She  sank  back  still  further  into  her  chair  and  glared. 
At  last  Madam  Fulton  was  afraid  of  her  own  emotions. 
Such  amazement  possessed  her  at  the  foolish  irony  of 
things,  such  desire  of  laughter,  that  she  dared  not  yield 
lest  her  frail  body  could  not  bear  the  storm.  Man's 
laughter,  she  realized,  shout  upon  shout  of  robust  roar 
ing,  was  not  too  heroic  for  this  folly.  Electra  was 
speaking :  — 

"I  insist  upon  the  truth  from  others,"  she  said,  still 
from  a  basic  resolution  that  seemed  invulnerable.  "I 
must  demand  it  from  myself." 

"The  truth,  Electra!"  groaned  Madam  Fulton. 
"You  don't  tell  the  truth." 

"I  don't  tell  the  truth?" 

"  You  don't  know  anything  about  it.  You  Ve  thought 
about  it  so  much  that  now  you  only  tell  horrible  facts." 

This  Electra  could  not  fathom,  but  it  was  evident 
that  she  was  putting  it  away  in  her  consciousness  for  a 
thoughtful  moment.  Madam  Fulton  was  rallying.  She 
felt  a  little  stronger,  and  she  knew  she  was  mentally 
more  vigorous  than  her  young  antagonist.  It  was  only 
in  an  unchanging  will  that  Electra  distanced  her. 

"Electra,"  she  said,  "you've  got  to  be  awfully  care 
ful  of  yourself."  There  was  a  wistful  kindness  in  her 
voice.  It  was  as  if  she  spoke  to  one  whom  she  wished  to 
regard  leniently,  though  she  might  in  reality  shower  her 

150 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

with  that  elfin  raillery  which  was  the  outcome  of  her 
own  inquietude. 

Electra  opened  her  eyes  in  a  candid  wonder. 

"Careful  of  myself?"  she  repeated.  "Why,  grand 
mother  ?  " 

"  You  Ve  trained  so  hard,  child.  You  've  trained  down 
to  a  point  where  it's  dangerous  for  you  to  try  to  live." 

"Trained  down,  grandmother?  I  am  very  well." 

"I  don't  mean  your  body.  I  mean,  you've  thought 
of  yourself  and  your  virtues  and  your  tendencies,  and 
tested  yourself  with  tubes  and  examined  yourself  under 
a  glass  until  you're  nothing  but  a  bundle  of  self-con 
scious  virtues.  Why,  it  would  be  better  for  you  if  you 
were  a  care-free  spontaneous  murderess.  You  'd  be  less 
dangerous." 

"Suppose  we  don't  talk  about  it  any  more,"  said 
Electra,  in  that  soothing  accent  suited  to  age. 

"  But  I  Ve  got  to  talk  about  it.  I  never  have  done  any 
particular  duty  by  you,  but  I  suppose  the  duty 's  there. 
I  've  got  to  tell  you  when  you  sail  into  dangerous  lati 
tudes.  You  mark  my  words,  Electra,  as  sure  as  you  sit 
there,  you  've  trained  so  hard  that  there 's  got  to  be  a 
reaction.  Some  day  you  '11  fly  all  to  pieces  and  make  an 
idiot  of  yourself." 

Electra  had  risen. 

"Excuse  me  for  a  moment,  grandmother,"  she  said. 
"I  must  get  you  a  glass  of  wine." 

Madam  Fulton,  too,  got  up  and  rested  one  hand 
upon  the  table. 

"If  you  leave  the  room  before  I've  finished,"  she 
cried,  "I'll  scream  it  after  you."  A  small  red  spot  had 

151 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

come  upon  each  cheek.  She  looked  like  a  fairy  god 
mother,  a  pinpoint  of  fury  in  the  eye.  "I  insist  upon 
your  listening.  God  Almighty  meant  you  for  a  hand 
some,  well-behaved  woman.  You  're  not  clever.  There 's 
no  need  of  your  being.  But  youVe  made  yourself  so 
intelligent  that  you're  as  dull  as  death.  You've  cul 
tivated  your  talents  till  you  've  snapped  them  all  in  two. 
You've  tried  so  hard  to  be  a  model  of  conduct  that 
you  're  a  horror,  a  positive  horror.  And  you  mark  my 
words,  the  reaction  will  come  and  you  '11  do  something 
so  idiotic  that  you  won't  know  yourself.  And  then  when 
you're  disgraced  and  humble,  then  will  be  the  time  I 
shall  begin  to  like  you." 

She  was  shaking  all  over,  and  Electra  looked  at  her 
in  great  alarm  She  dared  not  speak  lest  the  paroxysm 
should  come  again.  A  little  new  gleam  sprang  into 
Madam  Fulton's  eyes.  At  last  she  realized  that  she  had, 
though  by  ignoble  means,  quite  terrified  her  grand 
daughter.  That  one  humorous  certainty  was  enough, 
for  the  time,  to  mitigate  her  plight.  She  drew  a  quick 
breath,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"There!"  said  she.  "It's  over.  I  don't  know  when 
I've  had  such  a  satisfying  time.  Run  along,  Electra. 
It  won't  happen  again  to-day."  Then  it  occurred  to  her 
that  she  was  foregoing  an  advantage,  and  she  added 
shrewdly,  "Though  it  might  at  any  minute.  But  if 
you  bring  me  anything  to  take,  anything  quieting  or 
restorative,  I  '11  throw  it  out  of  the  window." 

Electra,  relieved  slightly  at  the  lulling  of  the  storm, 
looked  delicately  away  from  her  and  out  at  the  peace 
ful  lawn.  She  would  have  been  sorry  to  see  again  the 

152 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

red  of  anger  in  those  aged  cheeks.  Her  gaze  hung  ar 
rested.  Inexplicable  emotion  came  into  her  face.  She 
looked  incredulous  of  what  so  fired  her.  Madam  Fulton 
sat  down  again,  breathing  relief  at  the  relaxing  of  her 
inward  tension,  and  she  too  looked  from  the  window. 
A  man,  very  tall  and  broad,  even  majestic  in  his  bear 
ing,  stood  talking  with  Billy  Stark.  Billy,  with  all  his 
air  of  breeding  and  general  adaptability,  looked  like 
comedy  in  comparison. 

"  Grandmother ! "  Electra  spoke  with  a  rapid  empha 
sis,  "  do  you  know  who  that  is  ?  " 

"No,  I'm  sure  I  don't." 

"  It  is  Markham  MacLeod." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"I  know  him.  I  know  his  picture.  I  know  that  bust 
of  him.  He  is  here  before  Peter  expected." 

Life  and  color  came  into  her  face.  She  laid  down 
her  book  and  papers,  and  went  with  a  sweeping  haste 
to  the  hall-door.  Billy  was  coming  with  the  stranger 
up  the  path,  and  MacLeod,  glancing  at  the  girl's  wait 
ing  figure,  took  off  his  hat  and  looked  at  her  respon- 
sively.  Electra's  heart  was  beating  as  she  had  never 
felt  it  beat  before.  Greatness  was  coming  to  her  thresh 
old,  and  it  looked  its  majesty.  MacLeod  had  a  tremen 
dous  dignity  of  bearing  added  to  the  gifts  nature  had 
endowed  him  with  at  the  start.  He  was  a  giant  with  the 
suppleness  of  the  dancer  and  athlete.  His  strong  profile 
had  beauty,  his  florid  skin  was  tanned  by  the  sea,  his 
blue  eyes  were  smiling  at  Electra,  and  in  spite  of  the 
whiteness  of  his  thick  hair  he  did  not  seem  to  her  old. 
'  She  would  have  said  he  had  the  dower  of  being  peren- 

153 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

nially  young.  Meantime  Billy  Stark,  who  had  known 
him  at  once  from  his  portraits,  had  named  him  to  her, 
and  the  great  man  had  taken  her  hand.  He  had  ex 
plained  that  he  was  in  advance  of  his  time,  that  he  had 
driven  to  Peter's  and  had  been  told  that  the  young 
man  was  probably  here.  So  he  had  strolled  over  to  find 
him. 

"He  is  not  here,"  said  Electra.  "Please  come  in." 
She  was  breathless  with  the  excitement  of  such  nota 
bility  under  her  roof.  She  led  the  way  to  the  sitting- 
room,  judging  hastily  that  grandmother  was  too  shaken 
by  her  mysterious  attack  to  see  a  stranger,  and  also 
even  tremblingly  anxious  to  speak  with  him  before  any 
one  could  share  the  charm.  MacLeod  followed  her, 
offering  commonplaces  in  a  rich  voice  that  made  them 
memorable,  and  Billy  stayed  behind  to  throw  away  his 
cigar,  and  debate  for  an  instant  whether  he  need  go  in. 
Then  he  heard  a  voice  from  the  library  softly  calling 
him. 

"Billy,  I  want  you." 

He  stepped  in  through  the  long  window,  and  there 
was  Madam  Fulton,  half  laughing,  half  crying,  and 
shaking  all  over.  He  ran  to  her  in  affectionate  alarm  . 

"  Billy,"  said  she,  "  I  Ve  had  a  temper  fit." 

Billy  put  his  arm  about  her  and  took  her  to  the  sofa . 
There  he  sat  down  beside  her,  and  she  dropped  her 
head  on  his  shoulder. 

"Shoulders  are  still  very  strengthening,  Billy,"  said 
she,  laughing  more  than  she  cried,  "  even  at  our  age." 

"  They  're  something  to  lean  on,"  said  Billy.  "  There ! 
there,  dear!  there!" 

154 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Presently  she  laughed  altogether,  with  no  admix 
ture  of  tears,  and  Billy  got  out  his  handkerchief  and 
wiped  her  face.  But  she  still  shook,  from  time  to  time, 
and  he  was  troubled  for  her. 

"Now,"  she  said  presently,  withdrawing  from  him, 
and  patting  her  white  hair,  "Now  I  think  we've 
weathered  it." 

"What  was  it?"  ventured  Billy. 

"I  can't  tell  you  now.  I  might  die  a-laughing.  But 
I  will."  She  rested  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  a  moment 
before  she  went  away.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  Billy," 
she  said, "  the  beauty  of  you  is  you  're  so  human.  You  're 
neither  good  nor  bad.  You  're  just  human." 


XIII 

MARKHAM  MACLEOD'S  great  advantage,  after 
that  of  his  wonderful  physique,  was  his  humility. 
A  carping  humorist,  who  saw  him  dispassionately,  the 
more  so  that  women  were  devoted  to  "the  chief,"  said 
that  humility  was  his  long  suit.  There  was  his  splendid 
body,  instinct  with  a  magnetic  charm.  He  was  born, 
charlatans  told  him,  to  be  a  healer.  But  he  deprecated 
his  own  gifts.  With  a  robust  humor  he  disclaimed  what 
ever  he  had  done,  and  listened  to  other  voices,  in  specious 
courtesy.  Now,  face  to  face  with  Electra,  he  had  con 
vinced  her  in  five  seconds  that  it  was  an  illuminating 
thing  to  come  to  America  and  find  her  there.  This  was 
more  than  the  pliancy  of  the  man  of  the  world.  It  seemed 
to  her  the  spontaneous  tribute  of  a  sincere  and  lofty 
mind.  As  for  her,  she  was  abounding  in  a  tremulous 
satisfaction. 

"You  have  not  been  in  America  for  a  long  time," 
she  was  saying. 

"  Not  for  years.   I  have  been  too  busy  to  come." 

"You  are  needed  over  there." 

She  glowed  the  more,  and  he  looked  upon  her  kindly 
as  a  handsome  young  woman  whose  enthusiasm  be 
came  her. 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  they  wanted  me  so  much.  I 
needed  them." 

156 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Your  brothers,  you  mean.  The  units  that  make 
your  brotherhood." 

She  was  quoting  from  his  last  reported  speech,  and 
her  spirits  rose  as  she  felt  how  glad  she  was  to  have 
been  ready.  It  seemed  to  her  that  there  were  so  many 
things  she  had  to  say  at  once  that  they  would  come 
tumultuously.  MacLeod,  when  his  position  was  as 
sured,  was  quite  willing  to  let  the  disciple  talk.  It  was 
only  over  ground  not  yet  tilled  that  his  eloquence  fell 
like  rain.  And  Electra,  leaning  toward  him  in  a  bril 
liant,  even  a  timid  expectation,  was  saying,  — 

"  Tell  me  about  Russia.  What  do  you  foresee  ?  " 

A  reporter  had  asked  him  the  same  question  a  few 
hours  before,  and  the  answer  would  be  in  the  evening 
paper.  He  smiled  at  her,  and  spread  out  his  hands  in  a 
disclaiming  gesture. 

"You  know  what  I  foresee.  You  know  what  you 
foresee  yourself.  It  is  the  same  thing." 

"Yes,"  said  Electra,  "it  is  the  same  thing." 

But  there  were  times  when  MacLeod  wanted  to  es 
cape  from  posturing,  even  though  it  brought  him  adula 
tion. 

"  I  have  n't  apologized  for  breaking  in  on  you  like 
this,"  he  said,  with  his  engaging  smile.  "They  told  me 
at  Grant's  that  I  should  probably  find  him  over  here, 
in  the  garden.  The  next  house  they  said.  This  is  the 
next  house  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  Electra.  "  He  has  not  been  here, 
but  I  will  send  for  him.  He  shall  come  to  luncheon. 
You  must  stay." 

"Shall  I?"  He  was  all  good-nature,  all  readiness 
157 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

and  adaptability.  Electra  excused  herself  to  give  the 
maid  an  order,  and  while  she  stood  in  the  hall,  talking 
to  the  woman,  temptation  came  upon  her.  Yet  it  was 
not  temptation,  she  told  herself.  This  was  the  obvious 
thing  to  do. 

"Tell  Mr.  Grant  I  wish  him  particularly  to  come 
to  luncheon,"  she  said,  "and  to  bring"  —  she  hesitated 
at  the  name  and  shirked  it,  "and  to  bring  the  young 
lady,  —  the  lady  who  is  staying  there." 

Then  she  returned  to  MacLeod.  But  she  was  not 
altogether  at  ease.  Electra  was  accustomed  to  examine 
her  motives,  and  she  had  the  disquieting  certainty  that, 
this  time,  though  they  would  do  for  the  literal  eye,  they 
had  not  been  entirely  pure.  Still,  was  it  her  fault  if 
Rose,  confronted  by  the  newcomer,  proved  unprepared 
and  showed  what  was  fragile  in  her  testimony?  But 
she  was  not  to  be  thrown  off  the  scent  of  public  affairs. 

"Talk  about  Russia,"  she  entreated.  She  had  never 
felt  so  spontaneously  at  ease  with  any  one. 

MacLeod  was  used  to  making  that  impression,  and 
he  smiled  on  her  the  more  kindly,  seeing  how  the  old 
charm  worked. 

"I'd  rather  talk  about  America,"  he  said,  "about 
this  place  of  yours.  It 's  a  bully  place." 

Electra  was  devoted  to  academic  language,  and  to 
her  certainty  that  all  great  souls  expressed  themselves 
in  it.  She  winced  a  little  but  recovered  herself  when 
he  asked  with  a  new  conversational  seriousness,  "and 
how  is  my  friend  Grant  ? " 

"  Well."  She  found  some  difficulty  in  answering  more 
fully,  because  it  somehow  became  apparent  to  her  that 

158 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

he  had  not  really  placed  her.  Peter  was  his  only  due 
in  the  town.  It  hardly  looked  as  if  he  expected  to  find 
a  daughter  here. 

"Is  he  painting?"  MacLeod  went  on. 

Electra  frowned  a  little.  Peter  was  doing  nothing 
but  idling,  she  suspected,  up  to  yesterday,  and  then, 
driving  past,  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  in  the 
garden  before  a  canvas  and  of  Rose  lying  before  him 
in  her  long  chair.  That  had  given  her  a  keener,  a  more 
bitter  curiosity  than  she  was  prepared  for  in  herself. 
She  had  shrunk  back  a  little  from  it,  timid  before  the 
suspicion  that  she  might  like  Peter  more  tempestu 
ously  and  unreasonably  than  was  consonant  with  self- 
mastery.  But  while  these  thoughts  ran  through  her 
head  she  gazed  at  MacLeod  with  her  clear  eyes  and 
answered,  — 

"  I  fancy  he  looks  upon  this  as  his  vacation.  He 
must  have  worked  very  hard  in  Paris." 

MacLeod  entered  into  that  with  fluency.  Peter  must 
have  worked  hard,  he  owned,  but  that  was  in  the  days 
before  they  met.  When  they  met,  Peter's  talent  was  at 
its  blossoming  point.  It  was  more  than  talent.  It  was 
genius,  it  was  so  free,  so  strong,  so  unconsidered.  He 
implied  that  Peter  had  everything  that  belonged  to  a 
fortunate  youth. 

Electra's  eyes  glowed.  Here  was  some  one  to  jus 
tify  her  choice.  The  newspapers  had  done  it,  but  she 
had  not  yet  heard  Peter's  praises  from  the  mouth  of 
man. 

"You  have  had  an  enormous  influence  over  him," 
she  ventured. 

159 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

He  deprecated  that. 

"  He  has  an  enormous  affection  for  me,  if  you  like," 
he  owned,  "but  influence!  My  dear  young  lady,  I 
could  n't  influence  a  nature  like  that.  I  'm  nowhere 
beside  it.  All  I  could  hope  for  is  that  it  would  think 
some  of  the  things  I  think,  feel  some  of  the  things  I  feel. 
Then  we  could  get  on  together." 

Billy  Stark,  coming  in  at  the  door,  thought  that 
sounded  like  poppycock,  but  Electra  knew  it  was  the 
wisdom  of  the  chosen.  She  rose  and  indicated  Billy. 

"You  know  Mr.  Stark?" 

The  two  men  recurred  humorously  to  their  meeting 
in  the  garden,  and  owned  their  willingness  to  continue 
the  acquaintance.  At  the  moment  there  were  steps  and 
MacLeod  turned  to  see  Rose  coming  into  the  room. 
Electra's  heart  beat  thickly.  She  felt  Choked  by  it. 
And  there  was,  she  could  not  help  owning,  a  distinct 
drop  of  disappointment  when  MacLeod,  with  an  ex 
clamation  of  delighted  wonder,  went  forward  and 
kissed  Rose  on  the  cheek.  Then  he  kept  her  hand  while 
he  gave  the  other  one  to  Peter,  and  regarded  them  both 
with  expansive  kindliness.  Rose  was  the  one  who  had 
blenched  under  the  ordeal.  Yet  she  had  herself  imme 
diately  in  hand.  She  let  her  fingers  stay  in  MacLeod's 
grasp.  She  looked  at  him,  not  affectionately  nor  in  pride, 
but  with  a  sad  steadfastness,  as  if  he  were  one  of  the 
monumental  difficulties  of  life,  not  to  be  ignored.  Peter 
was  ecstasy  itself. 

"How  did  you  get  here?"  he  was  insisting.  "How 
did  you  know  I  might  be  over  here  ?  You  had  n't  met 
Electra." 

160 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Then  the  stranger  dropped  the  hands  he  held  and 
turned  to  her. 

"I  haven't  met  her  yet,"  he  said,  with  a  humorous 
consideration  that  stirred  her  heart.  "  Is  this  Electra  ?  " 
He  put  out  his  hand,  and  she  laid  hers  in  the  waiting 
palm.  She  felt  bound  to  something  by  the  magnetic 
grasp.  The  certainty  was  not  weakened  by  any  know 
ledge  that  other  men  and  women  felt  the  same. 

Madam  Fulton  came  in  then.  She  had  removed  the 
traces  of  past  emotion,  but  with  the  red  still  burning 
in  her  cheeks  she  looked  very  pretty.  MacLeod  greeted 
her  with  an  extreme  deference,  which  presently  slipped 
into  the  ordinary  courtesy  of  man  to  woman  as  he  found 
she  had  no  desire  to  exact  any  special  consideration. 
They  went  out  to  luncheon  with  that  air  of  accelerated 
life  which  contributes  to  the  success  of  an  occasion, 
and  then  MacLeod  talked.  Rose  sat  silent,  looking  on 
with  a  sad  indifference,  as  at  a  scene  she  had  witnessed 
many  times  before,  to  no  good  end,  and  Madam  Ful 
ton  listened  rather  satirically.  But  Electra  and  Peter 
glowed  and  could  hardly  eat,  and  MacLeod  addressed 
himself  chiefly  to  them.  Now  he  did  exactly  what  was 
expected  of  him.  The  brotherhood  of  man  was  his 
theme,  and  it  was  no  mere  effusion  of  sympathetic 
propaganda.  His  memory  was  his  immense  storehouse 
behind  emotion,  his  armory.  He  could  mobilize  facts 
and  statistics  until  the  ordinary  mind  owned  itself  cowed 
by  them.  When  they  rose  from  the  table,  the  millennium 
was  imminent,  and  it  had  been  brought  by  the  sword. 
At  the  library  door,  Peter,  beside  Electra  for  an  instant, 
irrepressibly  seized  her  hand,  as  it  hung  by  her  side, 

161 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

and  gave  it  passionate  pressure.  Instantly  she  looked 
at  him,  responsive  The  sympathy  they  lacked  in  their 
personal  relation  sprang  to  life  under  MacLeod's  trum 
peting.  Electra  was  in  a  glow,  and  Peter,  with  a  sur 
prised  delight,  felt  all  his  old  allegiance  to  his  imperial 
lady. 

MacLeod  would  not  sit  down. 

"  I  must  catch  my  train,"  he  said. 

There  was  outcry  at  once  from  two  quarters.  He 
was  not  to  return  to  the  city.  He  was  to  stay  here,  Peter 
declared.  It  was  absurd,  it  was  unthinkable  that  he 
should  do  anything  else.  MacLeod  took  it  with  a 
friendly  smile  and  the  air  of  deprecating  such  unde 
served  cordiality;  but  he  looked  at  Electra,  who  was 
frankly  beseeching  him  from  brilliant  eyes.  It  was  set 
tled  finally  that  he  should  go  back  to  his  hotel  for  a  day 
or  two,  see  some  newspaper  men  and  meet  a  few  public 
engagements,  and  then  return  for  a  little  stay. 

"  Get  your  hat,"  he  said  to  Rose,  in  affectionate  sug 
gestion,  "and  walk  with  me  to  the  station." 

And  as  it  became  apparent  that  father  and  daughter 
had  had  no  time  for  intimate  talk,  they  were  allowed  to 
go  away  together,  Peter  following  them  with  impetuous 
stammering  adjurations  to  MacLeod  to  rattle  through 
his  business  and  come  back.  When  they  were  out  upon 
the  highroad,  MacLeod  turned  to  Rose. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  don't  look  very  fit." 

Rose  had  one  of  her  frequent  impulses  to  tell  him 
the  crude  truth:  to  say  now,  "I  did  until  you  came." 
But  she  answered  indifferently,  — 

"I'm  very  well." 

162 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

They  walked  along  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  she 
felt  the  return  of  old  aches,  old  miseries  he  always  sum 
moned  for  her.  In  the  first  moment  of  seeing  him,  she 
always  recurred  to  the  other  days  when  to  be  with  him 
was  to  be  in  heaven.  Nobody  ever  had  so  blest  a  time 
as  she  in  the  simple  charm  of  his  good-will.  No  matter 
what  she  was  doing,  for  him  to  call  her,  to  hold  out  a 
finger,  had  been  enough.  She  would  forsake  the  world 
and  run,  and  she  never  remembered  the  world  again 
until  he  loosed  the  spell.  It  was  broken  now,  she 
thought,  effectively,  but  still  at  these  first  moments  her 
heart  yearned  back  to  the  old  playgrounds,  the  old 
lure. 

"  What  did  she  call  you,"  he  was  asking  —  "  Madam 
Fulton  ?  Mrs.  Tom  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Rose,  with  a  quiet  bitterness,  "Mrs. 
Tom." 

"  Have  they  accepted  you  ?  " 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  and  looked  at  him. 

"You  heard,"  she  answered. 

"  Extraordinary  people !  Who  is  Electra  ?  I  could  n't 
call  her  anything.  Everybody  was  saying  Electra." 

"She  is  Madam  Fulton's  granddaughter.  She  and 
Peter  are  engaged." 

"Ah!  I'd  forgotten  that.  I  rather  fancied  it  was 
you  —  with  Peter." 

She  summoned  the  resolution  to  meet  him  bluntly. 

"Don't  do  that,  please.  Don't  assume  anything  of 
the  sort  about  me." 

He  went  on  with  unbroken  good  humor.  She  had 
never  seen  him  angry,  but  the  possibility  of  it,  some 

163 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

hidden  force  suspected  in  him,  quelled  her,  of  late, 
when  she  considered  the  likelihood  of  rousing  it. 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  he  said,  with  his  habitual 
geniality.  "  Why  are  n't  you  staying  with  them  ?  " 

She  temporized,  only  from  the  general  certainty  that 
it  was  unsafe  for  him  to  know  too  much. 

"Peter  asked  me  to  stay  there.  His  grandmother  is 
very  kind.  I  like  her." 

"  Ah !  Have  these  people  money  ?  " 

"What  people?" 

"  Electra.   Tom's  family  in  general." 

"  I  don't  know." 

"They  must  have.  They  have  the  air.  Will  they  do 
anything  for  you  ?  " 

Her  face  contracted.  The  look  of  youth  had  fled  and 
left  her  haggard. 

"I  have  not  accepted  anything." 

"Have  they  offered  it?" 

"No." 

"There!  you  see!   No  doubt  they  will." 

"Why  did  you  come  over  here?"  she  cried  irre- 
pressibly. 

But  he  ignored  the  question. 

"The  prince  is  much  disturbed  about  you,"  he  vol 
unteered,  throwing  it  into  the  talk  as  if  it  were  of  no 
particular  validity,  but  only  interesting  as  one  chose 
to  take  it. 

"  Ah !  that 's  why  you  came ! " 

"  I  saw  him  two  weeks  ago,  in  Milan.  He  was  greatly 
troubled.  I  had  to  own  that  you  had  left  Paris  without 
seeing  me,  without  even  telling  me  your  whereabouts." 

164 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Then—"  said  Rose. 

She  knew  what  else  had  happened.  The  prince  had 
urged,  "  Go  over  to  America.  Influence  her.  Bring  her 
back  with  you."  But  this  she  did  not  say.  The  unbroken 
cordiality  of  his  attitude  always  made  his  best  defense. 
If  she  had  ever  known  harshness  from  him,  she  might 
brave  it  again.  But  many  forces  between  them  were  as 
yet  unmeasured.  She  did  not  dare. 

"You  must  remember,"  he  said,  with  the  air  of 
talking  over  reasonably  something  to  which  he  was  not 
even  persuading  her,  "  the  prince  is  exceptionally  placed. 
He  could  give  you  a  certain  position." 

"I  have  a  certain  position  now.  Don't  forget  that, 
will  you  ?  "  She  seemed  to  speak  from  an  extremity  of 
distaste. 

"  He  offers  a  private  marriage.  He  is  not  likely  to  set 
it  aside;  the  elder  line  is  quite  assured,  so  far  as  any 
thing  can  be  in  this  world.  Besides"  —  he  looked  at 
her  winningly  —  "you  believe  in  love.  He  loves  you." 

"I  did  believe  in  it,"  she  said  haltingly,  as  if  the 
words  were  difficult.  "  I  should  find  it  hard  now  to  tell 
what  I  believe." 

"  Well ! "  He  took  off  his  hat  to  invite  the  summer 
breeze.  It  stirred  the  hair  above  his  noble  forehead, 
and  Rose,  in  a  sickness  at  old  affection  dead,  knew, 
without  glancing  at  him,  how  he  looked,  and  marveled 
that  any  one  so  admirably  made  could  seem  to  her  so 
persistently  ranged  with  evil  forces.  Yet,  she  reflected, 
it  was  only  because  he  arrogated  power  to  himself.  He 
put  his  hands  upon  the  wheels  of  life  and  jarred 
them. 

165 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"  Well !   I  believe  in  it.   Is  n't  that  enough  for  you  ?  " 

"  Not  now,  not  now ! "  She  had  to  answer,  though  it 
might  provoke  stern  issues.  "  Once  it  would  have  been. 
There  is  nothing  you  could  have  told  me  that  I  would 
not  have  believed.  But  you  delivered  me  over  to  the 
snare  of  the  fowler."  Grandmother  had  read  those 
words  in  her  morning  chapter,  and  they  had  stayed  in 
her  ears  as  meaning  precisely  this  thing.  He  had  known 
that  it  was  a  snare,  and  he  had  cast  her  into  it.  She 
turned  her  moved  face  upon  him.  "  We  must  n't  talk 
about  these  things.  Nobody  knows  where  it  will  end. 
And  you  must  n't  talk  to  me  about  the  prince." 

"If  it  doesn't  mean  anything  to  you,  wouldn't  it 
move  you  if  I  told  you  it  meant  something  to  me  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  It  would  mean  a  great  deal  if  you  formed  an  alliance 
there." 

She  answered  bitterly. 

"You  are  humorous.  Alliance!  An  alliance  is  for 
princes.  There  are  other  words  for  these  things  you 
propose.  I  try  not  to  think  what  they  are.  I  dare  say 
I  don't  know  all  of  them.  But  there  are  words." 

"  It  would  make  me  solid  with  the  prince.  He  would 
get  several  concessions  from  his  brother.  They  would 
be  slight,  but  they  would  mean  a  great  deal  to  the 
Brotherhood." 

"I  see.  You  would  pull  a  wire  or  two  in  Germany. 
In  Russia,  too,  perhaps  ?  You  think  you  would  disarm 
suspicion,  if  the  prince  stood  by  you.  Maybe  you'd  get 
into  Russia,  even.  Is  that  it?  It  would  be  dramatic  to 
get  into  Russia  after  you'd  been  warned." 

166 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

She  was  following  his  mind  along,  as  she  often  did, 
creeping  with  doubtful  steps  where  he  had  taken  wing. 
"  But  still ! "  She  looked  at  him,  smiling  rather  wistfully. 
"  Still,  you  would  n't  throw  me  to  the  wolves  for  that, 
would  you?" 

He  met  her  look  with  one  as  candid,  and  little  as  she 
believed  in  the  accompanying  smile,  she  felt  her  heart 
warmed  by  it.  Now  he  was  gazing  about  him  at  the 
summer  prospect. 

"I  am  delighted  to  find  you  here,"  he  volunteered. 
"  It 's  a  change.  It  will  do  you  good  —  do  us  both 
good." 

"Are  you  quite  well?"  She  hesitated  slightly  in 
asking  that,  but  he  turned  upon  her  as  if  the  words  had 
given  him  a  shock  of  terror  or  dismay.  In  her  surprise 
she  even  fancied  he  paled  a  little. 

"What  makes  you  ask  that?"  he  cried.  "What  do 
you  mean  by  it  ?  " 

"Why,  I  don't  know!  You  look  well,  but  not  quite 
yourself,  perhaps,  —  somehow  different." 

MacLeod  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  his  forehead 
beaded  with  a  moisture  come  on  it,  he  knew,  at  that 
moment. 

"I  should  like  to  ask,"  he  said  peevishly,  "what  in 
the  devil  you  mean.  Have  you  —  heard  anything? " 

"No,"  said  Rose,  entirely  amazed.  "What  is  there 
to  hear?" 

They  had  reached  the  station,  and  she  led  him  to 
the  bench  under  a  tree  where  lovers  and  their  lasses 
assembled  at  dusk  to  see  the  train  come  in.  She  sat 
down,  dispirited  and  still  wondering,  and  he  stood 

167 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

before  her,  all  strength,  now,  and  candor,  as  if  he  had 
thrown  off  his  dubious  mood  and  resolved  to  be  him 
self. 

"  About  the  prince,"  he  was  saying.  "  I  want  you  to 
think  of  him.  He  would  give  you  experiences  such  as 
I  never  could.  You'd  live  on  velvet.  You'd  have  art, 
music,  a  thousand  things.  He  likes  your  voice.  He'd 
insist  on  fostering  that.  You  would  meet  men  of  rank, 
men  of  note  —  " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"  Men  of  rank !  I  've  no  doubt  of  it.  How  about  their 
wives  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  A  look  of  what  seemed  noble 
pain  was  on  his  face,  impatience  at  the  shallowness  of 
things. 

"Rose,"  he  said,  "you  know  how  little  I  respect 
society  as  it  is.  Take  out  of  it  what  good  you  can,  the 
play  of  emotion,  the  charm,  the  inspiration.  Don't 
undervalue  the  structure,  my  dear.  Live,  in  spite  of  it." 

She  looked  at  him  wearily  and  thought  how  handsome 
he  was,  and  that  these  were  platitudes.  Then  his  train 
came,  and  he  left  her  with  a  benedictory  grace,  stand 
ing  on  the  step  hat  in  hand,  majestic  in  his  courtesy. 
But  as  she  watched  him,  suddenly,  an  instant  before 
the  train  was  starting  she  saw  him  yield  and  sway. 
He  leaned  upon  the  rail  with  both  hands  and  then,  as 
if  by  a  quick  decision,  stepped  to  the  platform  again. 
She  hurried  to  him,  and  found  him  with  an  unfamiliar 
look  on  his  face.  It  might  have  been  dread  anticipation ; 
it  was  surely  pain. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  him.   "Tell  me." 
168 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

He  did  not  answer,  but  involuntarily  he  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  her. 

"Rub  it,"  he  said.  "Hold  it  tight.  Infernal!  oh, 
infernal ! " 

As  she  rubbed  the  hand  he  suddenly  recovered  his 
old  manner.  The  color  came  back  to  his  face,  and  he 
breathed  in  a  deep  relief. 

"That's  over,"  he  said,  almost  recklessly,  she 
thought.  "  Queer  how  quick  it  goes ! " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  She  was  trembling.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  they  had  each  passed  through  some  mysterious 
crisis. 

"  Is  there  another  train  to  town  ?  "  he  was  asking  an 
official,  who  had  kept  a  curious  eye  on  him.  There 
would  be  in  three  minutes,  an  accommodation  crawling 
after  the  express  he  had  lost. 

"  Good-by  again,"  he  called  to  Rose,  with  a  weaker 
transcript  of  his  usual  manner.  "  I  'm  to  be  down  in  a 
few  days,  you  know.  Good-by." 

This  time  he  walked  into  the  car,  and  she  saw  him 
take  his  seat  and  lie  back  against  the  window-casing. 
But  he  recovered  himself  and  smiled,  when  his  eyes 
met  hers.  If  anything  was  the  matter,  she  was  evidently 
not  to  know. 


XIV 

AS  the  two  had  walked  away,  Peter  turned  to 
Electra,  stammering  forth,  — 

"  Is  n't  he  a  great  old  boy  ?  " 

He  was  tremendous,  she  owned,  in  language  better 
chosen ;  and  this  new  community  of  feeling  was  restful 
to  her. 

"Come  out  into  the  garden,"  he  said,  and  as  they 
went  along  the  path  to  the  grape  arbor  he  took  her 
hand  and  she  left  it  to  him.  They  seemed  restored  to 
close  relations,  as  if  MacLeod  had  wrought  some  spell 
upon  them.  By  the  time  they  reached  the  liquid  green 
ness  of  the  arbor  light,  Peter  was  sure  he  loved  her. 
He  could  turn  to  her  quite  passionately. 

"Electra,"  he  said,  holding  both  her  hands  now, 
"I've  missed  you  all  these  days." 

She  smiled  a  little  and  that,  with  her  glowing  color, 
made  her  splendid. 

"  You  have  been  here  every  day,"  she  said,  conceding 
him  the  grace  of  having  done  his  utmost. 

"  Yes,  but  it  has  n't  been  right.  There 's  been  some 
thing  between  us  —  something  unexplained." 

She  knew,  so  she  reflected,  what  that  was.  Rose  had 
been  between  them.  But  she  listened  with  an  attentive 
gravity. 

"  We  must  go  back  to  Paris,"  Peter  was  urging.  "  I 
shall  work  there.  We  will  live  simply  and  turn  in  every 
thing  to  the  Brotherhood.  We  must  be  married  — 

170 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

dear."  He  looked  direct  and  manly,  not  boyish,  now, 
and  she  felt  a  sudden  pride  in  him.  "Electra,  you'll 
go  with  me  ?  " 

She  withdrew  from  him  and  sat  down,  indicating  the 
other  chair. 

"Something  very  queer  has  happened,"  she  said. 
"I  must  tell  you  about  it."  It  had  just  come  to  her 
again  as  it  had  been  doing  at  moments  through  the 
absorbing  hour  at  luncheon,  that  she  was  in  a  difficult 
place  with  grandmother,  and  that  here  was  the  one 
creature  whom  she  had  the  right  to  count  upon.  Rap 
idly  she  told  him  the  facts  of  the  case,  ending  with  her 
conclusion,  — 

"  The  house  belongs  to  grandmother." 

Peter  was  frowning  comically.  In  his  effort  to  think, 
he  looked  as  if  the  sun  were  in  his  eyes. 

"I  don't  believe  I  understand,"  he  said,  and  again 
she  told  him. 

"  You  don't  mean  you  are  building  all  this  on  a  casual 
sentence  in  a  book  ?  "  He  frowned  the  harder. 

Electra  was  breathing  pleasure  at  the  beauty  of  the 
case. 

"It  is  not  a  casual  sentence,"  she  insisted.  "It's  an 
extract  from  a  letter." 

Peter  had  no  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  business 
of  the  world,  but  he  knew  its  elements.  He  regarded 
her  with  tenderness,  as  a  woman  attractively  ignorant 
of  harsh  details. 

"  But  Electra,  dear,  that  is  n't  legal.  It  does  n't  have 
the  slightest  bearing  on  what  you  should  give  or  what 
she  could  exact  from  you  —  if  she  were  that  kind." 

171 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  is  n't  legal.  But  it  is  —  ethical." 
She  used  the  large  word  with  a  sense  of  safety,  loving 
the  sound  of  it  and  conscious  that  Peter  would  not 
choke  her  off. 

"  But  it  is  n't  that.  You  don't  know  how  your  grand 
father  wrote  that  letter.  He  may  have  done  it  in  a  fit 
of  temper,  or  malice,  or  carelessness,  or  a  dozen  things, 
and  forgotten  it  next  day.  A  letter 's  the  idlest  thing  on 
earth.  There's  no  reason  for  your  considering  it  a 
minute." 

"I  am  bound  to  consider  it,"  said  Electra.  "There 
it  is,  in  black  and  white.  I  shall  make  over  the  place 
to  grandmother." 

"  Well ! "  Peter  felt  like  whistling,  and  then  unpursed 
his  lips  because,  according  to  Electra,  whistling  was 
not  polite.  He  had  no  restrictions  relative  to  her  giving 
away  her  property;  but  he  felt  very  seriously  that  she 
must  not  be  allowed  to  indulge  herself  in  any  form  of 
insanity,  however  picturesque.  A  detail  occurred  to 
him,  and  he  said  quickly,  with  a  look  at  her,  — 

"But  Electra,  you  and  Tom  inherited  this  place 
together." 

She  knew  what  was  coming  and  her  color  deepened. 
Again  Rose  had  stepped  between  them,  and  Electra 
felt  herself  back  in  their  old  atmosphere  of  constraint. 

"I  have  inherited  it  from  Tom,"  she  rejoined. 

"  You  ignore  his  wife  ?  " 

Electra  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  It  was  a  hard 
struggle.  But  she  spoke  at  last  and  in  a  tone  which 
made  the  difficulty  of  speech  apparent. 

"  Since  Mr.  MacLeod  has  been  here  — " 
172 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Well?" 

"  I  must  recognize  her  as  his  daughter." 

"  Did  n't  you  believe  that,  Electra  ?  Not  even  that  ?  " 

"  I  am  forced  to  believe  it  now.  When  he  comes  back, 
I  shall  ask  him  to  corroborate  her  story.  If  he  does  — 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  —  give  her  what  is  just." 

"Not  otherwise,  Electra?   You  believe  him." 

"  I  believe  him  implicitly."  Her  tone  rang  out  in  an 
astonishing  assurance.  She  might  have  been  pledging 
fealty  to  some  adored  intimate. 

"  You  believe  him.  You  would  not  believe  me  ?  " 

She  hedged  a  little  here.  "  You  gave  me  no  proof  — 
only  the  woman's  word." 

"  Would  you  believe  him  without  proof  ?  " 

She  was  silent,  yet  she  knew  she  must. 

"But,"  she  said,  with  the  haste  of  finishing  an  un 
welcome  subject,  "  I  shall  settle  the  matter  as  soon  as 
possible  after  he  comes  back.  If  he  tells  me  his  daughter 
was  married  to  my  brother,  she  shall  be  paid  every  cent 
she  is  entitled  to.  But  she  shall  not  share  this  house  — 
not  an  inch  of  it." 

"Why  not?" 

Electra  seemed  to  be  carried  on  by  a  wave.  Hurt 
pride  found  its  voice,  —  all  the  revulsion  she  had  felt 
in  these  days  of  Peter's  divided  allegiance. 

"  The  house  is  ours.  It  belongs  to  the  family.  I  shall 
make  it  over  to  grandmother,  but  not  to  that  girl.  She 
shall  never  own  a  timber  in  it." 

Peter  spoke  involuntarily,  with  an  unpremeditated 
wonder :  — 

"  What  makes  you  hate  her  so  ?  " 
173 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Tears  came  slowly  into  Electra's  eyes.  They  sur 
prised  her  as  much  as  they  did  him.  She  was  not  used 
to  crying,  and  she  held  them  from  falling,  with  a  proud 
restraint.  Electra  felt  very  lonely  at  that  moment  in  a 
world  which  would  not  understand.  She  was  upholding 
truth  and  justice,  and  she  was  accused  of  mean  personal 
motives.  She  had  proposed  a  picturesque  sacrifice  for 
the  sake  of  abstract  right,  and  she  could  not  be  uncon 
scious  that  the  act  ought  to  look  rather  beautiful.  Yet 
Peter  saw  no  beauty  in  it,  and  grandmother  had  called 
her  a  fool.  Peter,  seeing  the  tears,  was  enormously 
embarrassed  by  them.  He  could  only  kiss  her  hand  in 
great  humility.  He,  on  his  part,  put  justice  cheerfully 
aside. 

"How  could  I?"  he  murmured,  with  the  contrition 
of  the  male  who  has  learned  that  tears  are  to  be  stanched 
without  delay.  "How  could  I?"  But  Electra,  on  her 
feet,  had  drawn  her  hand  away  from  him.  She  felt  only 
haste,  haste  to  conclude  her  abnegation,  perhaps  even 
to  forestall  any  question  of  the  house  by  getting  the 
matter  out  of  her  hands  before  MacLeod  came  back 
and  she  had  to  reckon  with  his  testimony. 

"  I  am  not  crying,"  she  said  proudly.  "  I  must  go  and 
talk  to  grandmother.  Promise  me  this.  Don't  tell 
her"  —  she  hesitated. 

"Rose?" 

"Don't  tell  her  I  have  spoken  of  this." 

She  had  gone,  and  Peter  helplessly  watched  her 
walking  up  the  path.  Then  he  took  his  own  way  home. 
"  My  stars ! "  he  muttered  from  time  to  time.  His  chief 
desire  at  the  moment  was  to  escape  from  anything  so 

174 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

strenuous  as  Electra's  moral  life.  It  made  a  general 
and  warm-hearted  obliquity  the  only  possible  condition 
of  conduct  in  a  pretty  world.  Peter  looked  round  at 
it  admiringly  then,  as  the  shadow  of  Electra's  earnest 
ness  withdrew  into  the  distance.  It  was  such  a  darling 
world,  there  were  such  dear  shadows  and  beguiling 
lights  and  all  things  adorable  to  paint.  He  cast  off  the 
mood  that  teased  him,  and  walking  faster,  began  to 
whistle.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  were  so  many 
agreeable  deeds  to  do,  and  so  much  time  to  do  them 
in,  that  he  must  simply  bestir  himself  to  use  half  the 
richness  of  things.  But  when  he  got  into  the  garden, 
the  honeysuckle  smelled  so  sweet  that  he  sat  down  at  its 
foot  and  breathed  it  until  he  went  to  sleep. 

Electra  walked  into  the  library,  where  Madam  Fulton 
sat  at  her  tatting  and  Billy  Stark  read  aloud  to  her 
from  an  idle  book.  Electra  felt  that  she  could  not  pos 
sibly  delay.  All  her  affairs  must  be  settled  at  once  and 
the  ends  knit  up. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.  "Grandmother, 
may  I  speak  to  you  a  moment?" 

Madam  Fulton  laid  down  her  work. 

"Is  it  the  same  old  story?"   she  inquired. 

"Yes,  grandmother.  I  don't  feel  that  I  can  wait." 

"Electra,"  said  the  old  lady  kindly,  "I  can't  listen 
to  you.  It's  all  fudge  and  nonsense.  If  we  talk  about 
it  any  more,  we  shall  be  insane  together.  Don't  go, 
Billy." 

"I  should  like  to  put  it  before  Mr.  Stark,"  said 
Electra,  with  her  clear  gaze  upon  him,  as  if  she  sun> 
moned  him  to  some  exalted  testimony. 

175 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Billy  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair.  He  had  confided 
to  Florrie  the  night  before  that  Electra 's  hypothetical 
cases  made  him  as  nervous  as  the  devil.  Madam  Fulton 
cast  him  a  comical  look.  It  had  begun  to  occur  to  her 
that  a  ball,  once  rolling,  is  difficult  to  stop. 

"Go  ahead,  then,"  she  agreed.  "I  wash  my  hands 
of  it.  Billy,  keep  a  tight  grip  on  yourself.  You  '11  die 
a-laughing." 

Then  Electra  stated  her  case ;  but  Billy  did  not  laugh. 
Like  Peter,  he  looked  at  her  frowningly,  and  owned  he 
did  not  understand.  Electra  stated  it  again,  and  this 
time  he  repeated  the  proposition  after  her.  Madam 
Fulton  sat  in  a  composed  aloofness  and  made  no  com 
ment. 

"But,  my  dear  young  lady,"  said  Billy  Stark,  "you 
quite  misunderstand.  An  extract  from  a  letter  has  no 
legal  value  compared  with  a  document  signed  and 
sealed  in  proper  form." 

"I  know,"  said  Electra,  "not  legal,  but  — "  She  was 
aware  that  Madam  Fulton's  eye  was  upon  her  and  she 
dared  not  finish.  "It  was  at  least  my  grandfather's 
expressed  wish,"  she  concluded  firmly.  "I  shall  carry 
it  out." 

"But — "  Billy  sought  about  for  a  simile,  "my  dear 
child,"  —  Electra,  in  the  weakness  of  her  lofty  reason 
ing,  seemed  to  him  pathetically  to  be  protected,  — 
"don't  you  see  you're  putting  yourself  through  all  kinds 
of  discomfort  for  nothing,  simply  nothing?  You've 
gone  and  got  a  big  sword  —  you  call  it  justice  —  to  cut 
a  thread.  Why,  it's  not  even  that.  There's  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing  there.  It 's  very  admirable  of  you  "  — 

176 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Electra's  waiting  attitude  quickened  at  this  —  "but  it's 
fantastic." 

She  spoke  decisively. 

"It  is  the  thing  to  do." 

Now  Madam  Fulton  entered  the  field.  She  looked 
from  one  to  the  other,  at  Electra  with  commiseration,  at 
Billy  in  a  community  of  regret  over  that  young  intellect 
so  dethroned. 

"Now  you  see  what  I  told  you,"  she  warned  them. 
"Here  we  are,  all  crazy  together.  We've  let  you  say  it, 
and  we've  addled  our  own  brains  listening  to  it  for  a 
minute.  I'll  tell  you  what,  Electra!"  She  had  dis 
covered.  "If  you're  so  anxious  to  get  rid  of  the  place, 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  buy  it." 

"Buy  it,  grandmother?  what  belongs  to  you  al 
ready  ?  " 

"Don't  say  that  again.  It  gives  me  a  ringing  in  my 
ears.  That's  what  I'll  do.  You 're  going  to  marry  Peter 
Grant  and  go  abroad.  I  '11  take  the  place  off  your  hands. 
I've  always  wanted  it.  I've  made  a  shocking  sum  out 
of  my  book,  shocking.  I  can  well  afford  it.  There's  an 
offer  for  you !" 

Electra  shook  her  head. 

"I  could  n't,"  she  said  gently.  "How  could  I  sell 
you  what  is  yours  already?  The  letter — " 

"The  letter!"  repeated  the  old  lady,  as  if  it  were  an 
imprecation.  She  looked  at  Billy.  He  returned  the 
glance  with  a  despairing  immobility.  She  reflected  that 
the  case  must  be  worse  even  than  she  had  thought,  since 
Billy  had  not  smiled.  Electra  must  be  madder  than  she 
had  imagined,  and  her  own  culpability  was  the  greater 

177 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

for  weaving  such  a  coil.   "Shall  I  tell  her,  Billy?"  she 
asked  faintly. 

He  nodded. 

"I  should,"  he  said  commiseratingly,  and  got  up  to 
leave  the  room.  It  seemed  to  Billy  this  summer  that  he 
was  constantly  trying  to  escape  situations  with  a  delicacy 
which  was  more  than  half  cowardice,  only  to  be  dragged 
back  into  the  arena.  The  mandate  he  had  expected 
promptly  came. 

"Don't  go,  Billy,"  cried  the  old  lady.  "Sit  down." 
Madam  Fulton  continued,  in  a  hesitating  humility 
Electra  had  never  seen  in  her,  "Electra,  I  don't  believe 
you'll  quite  understand  when  I  tell  you  there's  some 
thing  queer  about  the  letter.  You  see  there  never  was 
any  letter.  I  —  made  it  up." 

The  boot  was  on  the  other  foot.  All  the  values  of  the 
scene  had  shifted.  Now  it  was  Electra  who  doubted 
the  general  sanity.  Electra  was  smiling  at  her. 

"No,  grandmother,"  she  was  saying,  with  a  pretty 
air  of  chiding,  "you  must  n't  talk  that  way.  You  think 
that  convinces  me.  It's  very  dear  of  you,  very  dear  and 
generous.  But  I  know  why  you  do  it." 

"Bless  my  sinful  soul!"  ejaculated  the  old  lady. 
"Oh  — you  tell  her,  Billy." 

Billy  shook  his  head.  He  was  not  going  to  be  dragged 
as  far  as  that.  He  was  sorry  for  her,  but  she  had  had  her 
whistle  and  she  must  pay  for  it.  The  old  lady  was 
beginning  again  in  a  weak  voice,  — 

"You  see,  Electra,  that  book  isn't  what  you 
think.  It  is  n't  what  anybody  thinks.  I  —  I  made  it 
up." 

178 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Electra  was  about  to  speak,  but  her  grandmother 
forestalled  her. 

"Don't  you  go  and  offer  me  wine.  You  get  it  into 
your  head  once  and  for  all  that  I'm  telling  you  a  fact 
and  that  you  've  got  to  believe  it.  I  made  up  my  book  of 
recollections.  They're  not  true,  not  one  of  them.  As  I 
remember,  there  is  n't  one.  The  letters  I  wrote  myself." 

Electra  was  staring  at  her  in  a  neutrality  which  was 
not  even  wonder. 

Finally  she  spoke;  her  awed  voice  trembled. 

"The  Brook  Farm  letters!" 

Perhaps  it  was  this  reverent  hesitation  which  restored 
Madam  Fulton  to  something  of  her  wonted  state. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Electra,"  she  fulminated,  "what 
is  there  so  sacred  about  Brook  Farm?  If  anybody  is 
going  to  make  up  letters  from  anywhere,  why  should  n't 
it  be  from  there  ?  " 

Electra  was  looking  at  Billy  Stark  as  if  she  bade  him 
save  her  from  these  shocks  or  tell  her  the  whole  world 
was  rocking.  But  Billy  twirled  his  eyeglass,  and 
watched  it  twirling.  Finally  he  had  to  meet  her  eye. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  composure  he  did  not  feel, 
"the  book  is  apparently  not  quite  straight  —  a  kind  of 
joke,  in  fact." 

Electra  rose.  She  looked  very  thoughtful  and  also, 
Madam  Fulton  thought,  with  a  quaking  at  her  guilty 
heart,  rather  terrible.  She  was  pinched  at  the  nostrils 
and  white  about  the  lips. 

"What  I  must  do  first,"  she  was  saying,  as  if  to  her 
self,  "is  to  notify  the  club  we  cannot  possibly  have  our 
inquiry  afternoon." 

179 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Notify  them!"  repeated  Madam  Fulton,  in  a  spasm 
of  fearful  admiration.  "Are  you  going  to  tell  all  those 
women  ?  " 

Electra  included  her  in  that  absent  glance.  Now  that 
there  were  things  to  arrange,  dates  to  cancel,  topics  to 
consider,  she  was  on  her  own  ground.  She  spoke  with 
dignity :  — 

"I  shall  most  certainly  tell  nobody.  A  thing  like  that 
had  better  die  as  soon  as  possible.  I  cannot"  —  she 
turned  upon  her  grandmother,  a  look  of  passionate 
interrogation  on  her  face  — "I  cannot  understand  you." 

Madam  Fulton  answered  humbly,  yet  with  some 
eagerness,  as  if  Electra  might  readily  be  excused  from 
so  stiff  a  task, 

"  You  never  would,  Electra,  not  if  you  lived  a  hundred 
years." 

Electra  was  the  accuser  now,  age  and  kinship  quite 
forgotten. 

"Why  did  you  do  a  thing  like  that?" 

"For  fun,"  said  the  old  lady  faintly. 

"For  fun!"  The  tree  of  sin  grew  and  flowered  as 
she  thought  upon  it.  "You  offered  to  buy  this  house 
with  that  money,  unclean  money  from  the  sales  of  that 
fraudulent  book!" 

Madam  Fulton  turned  to  Billy  Stark  with  a  childlike 
gesture  of  real  surprise. 

"Is  it  unclean  money,  Billy?"  she  asked.  "Do  you 
call  it  that?" 

"We  mustn't  go  too  far,"  Billy  temporized,  with  a 
warning  look  at  Electra. 

She  was  on  the  way  to  the  door.  There  she  paused. 
180 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  do  not  fully  understand  it  yet,"  she  was  saying. 
"It  is  monstrous.  I  dare  say  I  never  shall  understand 
it."  Then  they  heard  her  rustling  up  the  stairs. 

Madam  Fulton  and  her  old  friend  looked  at  each 
other.  When  a  door  closed  overhead,  Billy's  face  relaxed 
and  Madam  Fulton  put  a  hand  over  her  lips. 

"Billy,"  said  she  weakly,  "am  I  so  bad?" 

"You're  a  dear,  Florrie.   Don't  you  worry." 

"But,  Billy,  is  she  right?" 

"Oh,  yes,  my  dear,  she's  right." 

"I'm  a  shocking  person,  then!" 

"Yes,  you're  truly  shocking.  But  you're  a  dear, 
Florrie,  you're  a  dear." 


XV 

AND  now  it  was  night  again  and  Rose  hurried 
away  to  the  tryst.    She  made  no  doubt  that  she 
should  find  him  there. 

"Playmate!"   she  called. 

"Here,"  answered  the  voice.    "There's  your  chair. 
There's  your  throne." 

She  plunged  into  the  thick  of  the  confidence  intended 
for  him. 

"He  has  come." 

"I  know  it.   Peter  told  me." 

"It's  all  as  bad  as  I  thought.   Playmate,  I'm  afraid 
I  shall  have  to  go  away." 

"Can't  you  stand  up  to  it?" 

"I  don't  know.   It's  pretty  bad." 

"I  guess  it  will  have  to  come  to  your  telling  me  about  it." 

"Yes.  You  see,  the  worst  of  it  is,  he  wants  to  make 
me  love  somebody  I  can't  love." 

"Peter?" 

"No,  no,  not  Peter.   Not  nice,  like  Peter." 

"Could  you  love  Peter?" 

"Why  should  you  ask  me  that?    Peter  belongs  to 
Electra." 

"Not  so  very  much.   Could  you  love  him  if  he  asked 
you  to?" 

"Oh,  that's  not  fair,  playmate!" 

"Yes,  it  is,  when  the  night's  as  dark  as  this  and  it's 
only  you  and  me.    Could  you  love  Peter?" 

182 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"I  want  to  know  everything  about  you.  Could  you 
love  Peter?" 

For  some  reason,  she  felt  constrained  to  use  one  of 
her  small  obstinacies. 

"I  could  n't  love  any  man  when  another  woman 
stood  between  us." 

"That's  a  good  girl.  Did  you  love  your  husband  ?" 

"My  husband  !"  She  choked  upon  the  word.  "Tom 
Fulton !  Did  you  know  him  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  knew  him." 
"  Was  it  likely  I  loved  him?" 

He  was  considering,  it  seemed. 

"Yes,"  he  said  then,  "it's  very  likely.  Tom  was  a 
handsome  devil." 

"But  he  was  — a  devil." 

"A  woman  would  n't  know  that,  not  at  first." 

"No.   I  did  n't,  at  first." 

"Who  is  this  other  man?" 

"A  prince." 

"So  you  would  be  a  princess." 

"No,  I  should  not  be  a  princess."  Her  voice  had  a 
curious  sound. 

"What  has  your  father  to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything.  The  prince  can  advance  him  in  certain 
ways.  My  father  plays  for  high  stakes." 

"Are  you  sure  you  don't  want  to  be  a  princess?" 
The  voice  seemed  to  coax  her.  "Even  if  you  do  want 
it  very  much,"  it  seemed  to  say,  "why  not  relinquish  it 
and  stay  here  under  the  tree?" 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  don't  want  to  be  a  princess,  even 
183 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

if  I  could  be.  And  I  don't  want  anything  my  father  can 
offer  me,  or  buy  for  me,  or  steal  for  me." 

"Then,  playmate,  when  he  comes  back,  you'll  have 
to  stand  up  to  him  or  —  cut." 

At  that  moment  he  saw  before  him  the  imagined 
picture  of  her  face  with  the  tears  upon  it. 

"It  is  n't  easy,"  she  was  saying.  "If  you  knew  my 
father,  you  would  see.  You  can't  withstand  him,  he 
looks  so  kind.  You  can't  refuse  him,  because  he  seems 
to  want  nothing  but  your  good.  You  can't  say  you 
won't  have  a  splendid  time  with  him,  because  you  sim 
ply  have  it." 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  so  bad  ?" 

"I  am  sure,"  she  answered  gravely.  "He  is  very 
bad.  And  it  is  not  because  he  wills  to  be  bad.  It  is 
because  he  wills  to  have  power,  and  as  if  he  were  better 
fitted  to  have  power  than  almost  anybody  —  except 
that  he  is  not  good.  Why,  do  you  know  what  power 
he  has  ?  He  wears  a  ring,  the  seal  of  the  Brotherhood . 
Whatever  order  is  stamped  with  that  seal  is  carried 
out,  even  if  it  is  thousands  of  miles  away.  When  Ivan 
Gorof  died  "  —  she  stopped,  shuddering. 

"What  was  that?" 

"I  can't  tell  you.  It  is  too  dreadful.  He  withstood 
my  father.  And  when  he  was  found,  they  picked  up 
in  the  chamber  a  bit  of  red  wax  on  a  shred  of  paper  — 
there  was  nothing  else  —  but  I  know  and  we  all  know 
it  was  a  part  of  the  seal  that  held  the  warrant  they  read 
to  him  —  the  assassins  —  before  he  died." 

"Did  your  father  sentence  him  to  death?" 

"Who  else?  Sometimes  I  get  thinking  about  it  at 
184 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

night,  and  then  it  seems  to  me  as  if  all  the  people  in 
the  world  had  been  delivered  into  his  hand.  That  is 
because  I  know  I  have  grown  to  be  afraid  of  him." 

"Was  he  always  cruel  to  you?" 

"Oh,  never!  never  in  the  world!  When  I  was  little, 
I  traveled  about  with  him,  and  I  had  the  best  time  a 
child  ever  had.  I  was  feted,  and  carried  on  shoulders, 
and  made  much  of  because  I  was  his  daughter.  Then  I 
grew  up  and  it  all  —  changed."  Her  voice  fell.  She 
remembered  the  snare  of  the  fowler,  but  that  she  could 
not  tell  him. 

"Is  he  unkind  to  you  now?" 

"Never!  it  is  unbroken  kindness,  —  a  benevolence, 
shall  I  call  it  ?  But  it  terrifies  me.  For  under  it  all  is 
that  unbending  will.  And  I  keep  hardening  myself 
against  it,  and  yet  I  know  the  time  will  come  when  he 
will  have  his  way,  because  he  is  stronger  than  I." 

"You  must  not  let  him  be  stronger  than  you.  The 
birch  bends,  but  it  can  resist." 

"You  don't  know!  If  he  were  outwardly  cruel,  I 
could  defy  him.  But  he  is  like  the  sun  that  nourishes 
and  then  burns.  He  seems  to  have  such  life  in  himself, 
such  great  inborn  power,  no  one  can  resist  it.  You 
almost  feel  as  if  you  were  going  against  natural  laws 
when  you  go  against  him;  and  you  know  you'll  be 
beaten  because  the  laws  are  inevitable." 

"That  was  n't  what  you  said  of  him  that  first  night 
down  in  the  shack." 

"No!  I  scoffed  at  him  then  a  little.  He  was  so  far 
away!  Now  I  have  been  near  him  again  and  I  trem 
ble." 

185 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"But  as  you  picture  him,  he's  all  good,  all  benevo 
lence.  You  could  convince  a  man  like  that." 

"Never!  He  hasn't  any  soul.  He  is  this  great 
natural  force  that  radiates  power." 

"Power!"  echoed  Osmond.  "No  wonder  he's 
drunk  on  it.  I  could  go  down  on  my  knees  and  wor 
ship  it." 

"Not  such  as  his!" 

"Such  as  anybody's,  so  long  as  it  is  power." 

For  the  first  time  she  began  to  comprehend  his  mortal 
hunger. 

"Don't  you  go  over  to  him,  too,"  she  said  jealously. 
"  Peter  is  under  his  foot.  So  is  Electra.  If  you  go  over, 
I  shall  be  alone." 

"I  shall  never  go  anywhere  to  leave  you  alone." 
Then,  after  a  moment,  he  continued,  "So  you  are  not 
sure  whether  the  prince  loves  you?" 

"He  would  call  it  that.   It  is  not  that  to  me." 

"Of  course  he  loves  you!" 

"Don't  be  too  sure,  playmate.  I  know  the  world. 
You  know  your  garden." 

"Then  why  does  he  want  you?" 

"It's  a  game.  My  father  wants  to  buy  him.  He  may 
want  to  buy  my  father.  Then  maybe  he  wants  the 
prestige  of  owning  the  woman  with  the  most  beautiful 
hair  in  Europe." 

"Is  that  your  hair,  playmate?" 

"He  says  so." 

"Well,  a  man  might  do  worse  than  gamble  for  a  thing 
like  that." 

"You  amaze  me."  But  he  would  not  continue  that, 
186 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

and  presently  she  asked  him,  "What  have  you  been 
thinking  about  lately?" 

"About  you." 

"When?" 

"All  day  long  while  I  was  at  work,  and  every  night 
when  I  sat  here  and  you  did  n't  come." 

"Was  it  a  happy  thing  to  do?" 

"Very  happy." 

"Even  when  I  did  n't  come?" 

"Even  when  you  did  n't  come." 

"Then  it's  just  as  nice  to  think  about  me  as  to  talk 
to  me?" 

"Almost!"  He  said  it  quite  cheerfully,  and  through 
her  pique  she  had  to  laugh. 

"What  do  you  think,  playmate?" 

"I  make  a  world  and  I  put  you  in  it.  Then  I  put 
myself  in,  too." 

When  he  spoke  like  this,  simply  and  even  with  a  gay 
indifference,  she  wondered  whether  the  world  was  a 
pageant  to  him,  which  it  cost  him  no  pains  to  relinquish, 
and  whether,  too,  though  he  had  great  kindliness  and 
understanding,  deep  emotions  were  forbidden  him. 
At  least,  since  he  was  impersonal  and  remote,  she  could 
ask  him  anything. 

"What  is  your  world  ?   Is  it  like  this  ?" 

"It  isn't  my  world.  It's  yours  and  mine.  We  go 
about  in  it,  having  a  bully  time,  and  nobody  looks  at 
us  or  asks  us  questions." 

"Don't  they  see  us?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  dare  say.  Only  they  don't  stare  after  us 
and  say,  *  Why  do  they  do  thus  and  so  ? '  They  don't 

187 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

even  speak  of  your  beautiful  hair.  I  talk  about  that 
myself,  all  the  time,  and  you  like  to  have  me.  But 
we  should  both  think  it  mighty  queer  if  anybody  else 
did." 

"  Do  we  speak  to  the  other  people  ?" 

"Sometimes.  If  we  want  to.  If  you  see  a  diamond 
or  a  sapphire,  or  I  see  a  new  patent  weeder,  then  we 
say,  'We  want  to  buy  that.'  But  we  don't  have  much 
time  for  other  folks.  We  travel  a  lot.  You  tell  me  about 
pictures  and  Alps  and  thrones  and  principalities,  be 
cause  I  don't  know  much  except  about  grafting  trees 
and  sowing  seed  at  the  best  time.  But  always  we  come 
home  here  to  the  plantation  because  I  find  that 's  where 
I  feel  most  at  peace.  And  you  are  at  peace  here,  too. 
I  am  delighted  when  I  find  that  out." 

"Be  delighted  now,  then.  I  am  at  peace  here,  more 
than  anywhere  else." 

"And  when  we  are  here,  we  live  in  our  house.  At 
first,  I  built  a  large  one  up  there  on  the  hill,  and  I  had 
you  bring  over  pictures  for  it  from  abroad,  and  I  planted 
trees,  and  it  was  very  grand.  But  I  was  n't  contented 
there,  and  you  were  n't,  because  of  it.  You  saw  at  once 
that  my  shell  had  got  to  fit  me,  and  the  plain  house  did. 
So  I  kicked  over  the  big  house,  and  we  lived  in  the  old 
one." 

"With  grannie?" 

"Yes,  only  I  did  n't  think  very  much  about  her.  She 
was  always  there,  I  suppose,  like  the  sun  through  the 
windows,  very  kind  and  warm,  and  glad  we  were  con 
tented  ;  but  it  was  our  house.  That 's  what  makes  the 
charm  of  everything  —  that  it 's  yours  and  mine.  I 

188 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

could  n't  sleep  in  the  house  though.   It  had  to  be  out 
doors." 

"Did  I  have  my  hammock  swung  in  the  upper 
veranda  ?  " 

He  laughed  out  delightedly. 

"How  did  you  know?  Yes,  I  slept  down  here  or 
under  the  fir  by  the  house,  but  you  were  afraid  of  cater 
pillars  and  you  had  to  be  up  there." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  anything  else,"  she  explained 
humbly.  "Not  of  bears  or  anything  in  the  deep  woods. 
But  caterpillars  crawl  so!" 

"However,  it  did  n't  make  any  difference  where  you 
were,  because  while  we  were  asleep  it  was  just  as  it  is 
while  we  are  awake  —  there  is  a  fine  thread  that  goes 
from  me  to  you.  There  might  be  processions  of  people 
between  us,  chariots  and  horses  and  marching  armies, 
but  they  could  n't  break  the  thread." 

"And  what  do  we  do  all  day?" 

"Talk.  Think.  I  think  to  you  and  you  think  back 
to  me." 

"But  we  must  work.  If  we  don't,  you'll  get  tired  of 
me."  She  spoke  out  of  sad  knowledge. 

"Why,  playmate!" 

The  reproach  in  his  voice  recalled  her,  and  she  was 
ashamed  to  find  her  belief  less  warm  than  his. 

"Well,"  he  conceded,  "maybe  we  work.  I  go  on 
grafting  and  sowing  seeds  and  sending  things  to  market, 
and  you  sit  on  a  stone  and  sing." 

"Shall  I  sing  to  you  now?" 

"No,  playmate.    It  makes  me  sad." 

"I  could  sing  happy  songs." 
189 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"That  would  n't  make  any  difference.  When  you 
sing,  it  wakens  something  in  me,  some  discontent,  some 
longing  bigger  than  I  am,  and  that's  not  pleasure.  It 
is  pain." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  pain?" 

He  waited  a  long  time.   Then  he  asked  her,  — 

"Have  you  ever  known  pain?" 

"Yes.   I  thought  my  mind  was  going." 

"But  not  pain  of  your  body?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  that." 

"The  pain  of  the  body  is  something  to  be  afraid  of. 
If  we  have  it  once,  we  cringe  when  we  see  it  coming. 
But  your  singing  —  can  I  tell  you  what  it  wakens  in 
me?  No,  for  I  don't  know.  Pain,  the  premonition  of 
pain.  Something  I  must  escape." 

"Yet  I  was  to  sit  by  and  sing  to  you  while  you  were 
at  work." 

"Yes,  but  that  would  be  when  we  were  quite  con 
tent."  It  was  the  first  wistful  hint  that  things  were 
lacking  to  him.  He  could  not  be  contented  ;  yet,  against 
reason,  his  manner  told  a  different,  braver  story. 

"You  said,"  she  began,  "if  armies  came  between  us, 
they  could  not  break  the  little  thread.  Suppose  I  go 

*\  55 

away  r 

"That  would  n't  break  it.  Don't  you  suppose  my 
thought  can  run  to  London  or  Rome  ?  It  is  n't  worth 
much  if  it  can't." 

"Suppose  I" —  she  stopped,  appalled  at  herself  for 
the  thought,  but  jealously  anxious  to  be  told. 

"Suppose  you  marry  the  prince?  That  would  be 
dreadful,  because  you  don't  love  him.  But  it  would  n't 

190 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

break  the  thread.  It  would  muffle  it,  I  guess.  We 
could  n't  think  back  and  forth  on  it.  But  it  would  be 
there." 

Immediately  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  some 
thing  even  more  precious  than  she  had  guessed,  some 
thing  not  to  be  imperiled. 

"I  must  not  do  anything  to  muffle  it,"  she  said. 
" Either  with  the  prince  —  or  any  one." 

"The  only  thing  I'm  afraid  of,"  he  went  on,  "is  that 
you  won't  stand  up  to  your  father.  Why,  you  must, 
playmate,  if  you  feel  like  that  about  him." 

She  answered  bitterly. 

"I  am  afraid,  I  suppose." 

Osmond  spoke  out  sharply  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who 
dismisses  dreams. 

"Don't  be  afraid.  Stand  up  and  fight." 

Her  pathetic  voice  recalled  him. 

"But  think!  You  said  you  were  afraid  of  pain. 
You  ought  to  know  what  fear  is." 

He  answered  slowly,  and  in  what  seemed  almost 
exaltation,  — 

"I  am  afraid  of  pain  ;  but  when  the  time  comes  I 
shan't  wait  for  it.  I  shall  go  out  to  meet  it." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

He  seemed  another  creature,  all  steel  and  fire,  not  an 
impersonal  thing  speaking  out  of  the  dark. 

"Don't  you  know  we  all  want  something  big,  some 
thing  bigger  than  we  are  to  fight  and  conquer  ?  Before 
we  leave  this  earth,  we  want  to  make  our  mark  on  it, 
that  shall  not  be  washed  away." 

"Are  you  ambitious?" 

191 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  don't  know.  I  do  know  I  mean  to  live  —  when  I 
am  free." 

Alarm  was  quickening  in  her.  He  seemed  to  be  with 
drawing  into  dark  halls  where  she  could  not  see  to  fol 
low.  He  was  buil  i:ng  the  house  of  his  heart,  yet  there 
were  apparently  other  edifices,  fortresses  or  dungeons, 
it  might  be,  where  he  walked  alone. 

"When  you  are  free?"   she  insisted. 

"  When  Pete  has  got  his  gait  and  I  need  n't  back  him. 
When  grannie  is  dead  —  dear  grannie !  Then  I  shall  do 
my  one  free  act." 

She  was  so  shaken  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  night  itself 
terrified  her,  not  he  alone. 

"Not" —  she  paused,  and  then  whispered  it.  "Do 
you  mean  —  to  kill  yourself  ?  " 

He  laughed. 

"Not  on  your  life!  I  am  going  to  get  all  that's  com 
ing  to  me.  But  I  am  going  to  get  it  in  my  own  particular 
way." 

"I  cannot  understand  you." 

"Of  course  you  can't.  But  remember  all  of  you  have 
something  to  bring  to  life.  You  give  as  well  as  take. 
You  have  your  beauty  and  your  voice.  Peter  has  his 
brush.  Grannie  has  her  mothering  gift.  That's  better 
than  being  a  queen.  There's  power  in  it.  Your  prince 
has  his  inheritance.  I  have  had  to  look  about  and  choose 
my  gift.  I  chose  it  long  ago." 

"Is  it  something  that  makes  you  happy?" 

"It  made  me  wild  when  I  discovered  it,  because  I 
saw  it  was  mine.  Nothing  had  ever  been  mine  before. 
As  it  comes  nearer  and  nearer,  it  looks  pretty  grim  to 

192 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

me.  But  it's  mine,  still.  When  men  used  to  go  out  to 
fight,  they  must  have  said  a  good  many  times,  'This 
is  a  nasty  situation,  but  it's  my  quarrel.5  And  this  is 
mine." 

She  felt  her  loneliness.  At  once  it  seemed  that  she  had 
not  yet  known  the  real  man.  Their  play  at  friendship, 
sympathy,  —  what  was  it  ?  —  had  been  only  play.  Like 
all  men,  he  could  bring  the  woman  a  flower,  a  crown 
even,  "a  rosy  wreath,"  but  the  roses  must  wither  while 
he  chose  his  sword.  She  could  not  speak. 

"What  is  it,  playmate?"  he  asked  presently.  It  was 
the  old  kindly  voice. 

"I  must  go  back.   I'm  cold." 

"Cold!  It's  warm  to-night." 

"Good-night." 

He  followed  her. 

"I  did  it.  I  chilled  you  somehow.   Forgive  me." 

She  could  not  speak,  and  he  was  at  her  side. 

"I  know.  There  are  things  that  can't  be  talked  about. 
They  sound  like  twaddle.  These  things  I've  told  you  — 
they're  well  enough  to  think  about.  They  can't  be  said. 
You're  disappointed  in  me!" 

But  it  was  not  that  he  had  told  her  too  much ;  he  had 
told  her  too  little.  He  had  put  her  away  from  him. 

"Good-night,"  she  said  again.  "It's  all  right,  play 
mate,  truly." 

His  anxious  voice  came  after  her. 

"It's  not  all  right.   I've  muddled  it." 


XVI 

LECTRA  felt  very  much  alone  in  a  world  of 
wrongdoers.  To  her  mind  moral  trespassing  was 
a  definite  state  of  action  fully  recognized  by  the  persons 
concerned  in  it.  She  made  no  doubt  that  everybody 
was  as  well  able  to  classify  obliquity  as  she  was  to  do 
it  for  them.  She  had  stated  times  for  sitting  down  and 
debating  upon  her  own  past  deeds,  though  she  seldom 
found  any  flagrant  fault  in  them.  There  was  now  and 
then  an  inability  to  reach  her  highest  standard ;  but  she 
saw  no  crude  derelictions  such  as  other  people  fell  into. 
It  was  almost  impossible  for  her  to  think  about  grand 
mother  at  all,  the  old  lady  seemed  to  her  so  naughty 
and  so  mad.  Billy  Stark,  too,  though  he  was  a  man  of 
the  world,  admirably  equipped,  was  guilty  of  extreme 
bad  taste  or  he  could  never  have  asked  Madam  Fulton 
to  marry  him.  Why  was  he  calling  her  Florrie  and  giv 
ing  her  foolish  nosegays  every  morning?  Rose  and 
Peter,  when  it  came  to  them,  seemed  pledged  to  keeping 
up  some  wild  fiction  beneficial  to  Rose  ;  only  Markham 
MacLeod  was  entirely  right,  and  so  powerful,  too,  that 
his  return  must  shake  all  the  warring  atoms  into  a  har 
monious  conformity  with  Electra  and  the  moral  law. 

Moreover,  she  had  the  entire  programme  of  the  club 
meeting  to  reconstruct.  Nothing,  she  inexorably  knew, 
would  tempt  her  to  allow  for  a  moment  any  further 
consideration  of  her  grandmother's  pernicious  book. 
Yet  the  club  was  to  meet  with  her,  the  honorable  sec- 

194 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

retary,  and  it  had  no  topic  to  whet  its  teeth  upon.  In 
her  dilemma,  she  put  on  her  hat  and  walked  over  to 
inquire  of  Rose  when  her  father  was  to  return.  Mac 
Leod's  bubbling  kindliness  seemed  to  her  so  generous 
that  she  made  no  doubt  he  would  talk  to  them  for  an 
hour,  or  even  allow  her  to  give  him  a  reception. 

Rose  was  in  the  garden,  as  usual,  in  the  long  chair, 
and  Peter  was  painting.  Ostensibly  he  was  painting 
her,  but  the  mood  escaped  him  and  he  was  blurring  in 
a  background.  Electra  remembered,  as  she  went  up 
the  path,  that  still  nothing  had  been  said  to  her  about 
Peter's  painting.  He  might  have  been  any  sort  of  young 
'prentice  for  all  she  heard  about  his  work;  and  here  it 
was  beginning  incidentally,  like  an  idle  task,  with  no 
reference  to  her.  She  had  thought  painting  was  some 
thing  to  be  carried  on  gravely,  when  one  had  reached 
Peter's  eminence.  There  ought  to  be  talk  of  theories 
and  emotions  inspired  by  pictures  in  the  inception,  not 
merely  this  prosaic  business  of  sitting  down  to  work 
and  characterizing  beauties  with  a  flippant  jargon  of 
words  misused.  "Very  nice,"  "stunning"  —  that  was 
what  she  had  heard  Peter  say  even  of  sunsets  that  ought 
to  have  moved  him  to  the  skies.  He  had  a  delicate- 
fingered  way  of  touching  everything,  as  if  the  creative 
process  were  a  little  one,  of  small  simplicities:  not  as 
if  art  were  long. 

When  she  appeared  that  morning,  behind  the  holly 
hocks,  Rose  was  about  to  spring  up,  and  Peter  did  stand, 
expectant,  with  his  charming  smile.  Electra  at  once 
made  proper  disclaimers,  and  insisted  that  the  sitter's 
pose  should  not  be  broken  and  that  it  would  be  an 

195 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

immense  entertainment  to  see  the  work  go  on.  Peter 
brought  a  chair  out  of  the  arbor,  and  she  sat  down,  erect 
and  handsome,  while  Rose  sank  back  into  her  uncon 
strained  reclining.  Rose  wore  the  simplest  dress,  and 
her  slender  arms  were  bare.  There  were  about  her  the 
signs  of  tasks  abandoned,  even  of  pleasures  dropped 
and  not  remembered  —  the  book  half  closed  upon  her 
finger,  the  rose  and  fan.  Her  great  hat  with  its  long 
feather  lay  beside  her  on  the  ground,  and  Electra,  justly 
appraising  its  picturesqueness  and  value,  thought,  with 
brief  distaste,  that  it  looked  as  if  it  might  belong  to  an 
actress.  She  asked  her  question  at  once  and  Rose 
answered.  No,  her  father  would  not  be  here  in  time 
for  the  important  meeting.  She  had  no  doubt  he  would 
indeed  have  said  more  than  a  few  words,  since  the  en 
tertainment  had  fallen  through.  Here  Electra  inter 
rupted  her  delicately  and  challenged  the  use  of  that 
term  for  so  serious  an  issue.  It  could  hardly  be  called 
an  entertainment ;  they  had  simply  been  unable  to  con 
sider  the  topic  fixed  upon,  and  it  was  necessary  to  find 
a  substitute. 

"Let  me  do  something,"  said  Rose,  with  her  appeal 
ing  grace.  "I'll  sing  for  them." 

That  accounted  for  her  again,  Electra  thought,  the 
unconsidered  ease,  perhaps  the  boldness.  She  belonged 
to  public  life;  yet  as  such  she  might  well  be  taken  into 
account. 

"What  do  you  sing?"  she  asked. 

Rose  forgot  all  about  her  picture  and  sat  up,  looking 
quite  in  earnest.  Peter  held  his  brush  reproachfully 
poised. 

196 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"I  tell  you  what  I  can  do,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's 
thinking.  "I  can  give  a  little  talk  on  contemporary 
music  —  what  they  are  doing  in  France,  in  Germany. 
I  can  give  some  personal  data  about  living  musicians  — 
things  they  would  n't  mind.  And  I  really  sing  very  well. 
Peter,  boy,  tell  the  lady  I  sing  well." 

"She  sings  adorably,"  said  Peter.  "She  has  a  night 
ingale  in  her  throat :  — 

" '  Two  larks  and  a  thrush, 
All  the  birds  in  the  bush.' 

You  never  heard  anything  more  sympathetic.  I  never 
did." 

The  "Peter,  boy,"  had  spoiled  it.  Electra  grew  colder. 
She  wished  she  were  able  to  be  as  easy  as  she  liked ;  but 
she  never  could  be,  with  other  people  perpetually  doing 
and  saying  things  in  such  bad  taste. 

"The  club  is  composed  of  ladies  who  know  the  best 
music,"  she  heard  herself  saying,  and  realized  that  it 
sounded  like  a  child's  copy-book. 

Rose  was  still  sitting  upright,  Peter  patiently  looking 
at  her,  evidently  wishing  she  would  return  to  her  pose, 
and  yet  quite  as  evidently  enriching  his  attention  with 
this  new  aspect  of  her.  She  had  turned  into  a  vivid  and 
yet  humble  creature,  intent  on  offering  something  and 
having  it  accepted.  The  thought  that  she  had  some 
thing  Electra  wanted  seemed  for  the  moment  the  next 
best  thing  to  knowing  that  Electra  tendered  her  kin 
ship  and  recognition. 

"Please  like  me,"  her  look  begged  for  her.  "Please 
tolerate  me,  at  least,  and  take  what  I  have  to  give." 

The  end  of  it  was  that  Electra  did  accept  it,  and  that 
197 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Peter's  painting  was  quite  forgotten  while  Rose  ran 
eagerly  over  the  ground  she  could  cover.  One  moment 
of  malice  she  did  have.  While  Electra  was  hesitating, 
she  looked  up  at  her  with  a  curious  little  smile. 

"You  can  introduce  me,"  she  said,  "as  you  always 
have,  as  'the  daughter  of  Markham  MacLeod.'  That 
will  give  your  afternoon  an  added  flavor." 

Electra  answered  seriously,  "Thank  you,"  and  re 
solved  to  do  it.  Madam  Fulton,  she  thought,  would 
have  the  decency  not  to  break  the  situation  by  her  in 
temperate  "Mrs.  Tom's."  Electra  had  no  experience 
of  contrition  in  her  grandmother,  but  she  could  but  feel 
that  any  woman  who  had  done  what  that  old  lady  had 
might  be  trusted  to  observe  the  decencies  for  at  least 
a  week  thereafter. 

"That  was  my  public  name,"  Rose  added  hastily, 
as  if  she  had  invalidated  her  claim.  "I  sang  for  eight 
months  or  more  as  Rose  MacLeod." 

It  was  a  new  triumph  for  her,  Electra  realized  when 
the  day  was  over.  The  ladies  came  down  from  the  city 
and,  in  perfect  weather,  sat  about  on  the  veranda  and 
in  the  two  front  rooms,  while  Rose,  at  the  piano,  sang 
to  them  and  then  gave  them  a  charming  talk.  Electra, 
who  could  do  no  creative  work,  could  not  take  her  eyes 
from  the  young  creature,  all  eager  brilliancy  and  dressed 
in  a  perfect  Paris  gown.  The  dress,  Electra  knew,  was 
no  finer  than  she  herself  could  amply  afford  to  buy  in 
her  own  country.  Only  it  was  worn  with  a  grace,  the 
air  of  a  woman  born  to  be  looked  at,  and  used  to  fer 
vid  tributes.  The  other  women,  too,  were  worshipers 
of  notability,  and  Rose  knew  she  had  raised  a  wave  of 

198 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

admiration.  To  her,  unused  to  the  American  woman's 
passion  for  new  things,  it  was  a  real  tribute,  something 
she  could  count  upon  to-morrow  after  the  epoch  of  to 
day;  and  the  afternoon  left  her  exhilarated  and  warm 
in  momentary  triumph.  The  women  crowded  about 
her  with  intemperate  comment  and  question.  They 
wanted  to  know  as  much  about  her  father  as  they  did 
about  her.  They  were  all  eager  to  show  their  conversance 
with  the  Brotherhood,  its  aims  and  potencies,  and  they 
were  more  than  ready  to  besiege  her  father  and  to  en 
tertain  her.  Some  of  them  even  wanted  to  make  dates 
for  the  coming  autumn,  and  Rose  found  herself  the  re 
cipient  of  a  score  of  visiting  cards,  all  pointing  to  new 
alliances.  She  slipped  away  before  the  afternoon  was 
over,  to  spare  Electra  the  pains  of  thanking  her,  and 
going  home,  found  Markham  MacLeod  at  the  gate. 
Immediately  her  hopes  died.  She  had  forgotten  the 
issues  she  had  to  reckon  with  in  him.  From  these  no 
ladies'  club  could  save  her. 

He  was  affection  itself  in  greeting  her. 

"I  have  just  come,"  he  explained.  "Peter  is  in  town 
and  Mrs.  Grant  is  taking  her  afternoon  rest.  Let  us 
walk  a  little  way." 

"I  have  n't  my  hat,"  she  demurred. 

He  looked  at  her  sufficient  parasol  and  took  her  hand, 
turning  her  toward  the  road  again. 

"Come.  We'll  walk  along  to  that  grove.  It  is  shady 
there.  I  want  to  see  you  before  we  meet  the  others." 

She  yielded,  and  presently  they  stepped  in  at  the  bars 
to  the  field  where  the  grove  invited.  Under  the  trees 
she  furled  her  parasol,  and  sat  down  on  a  stone.  She 

199 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

looked  involuntarily  toward  the  plantation,  below  them 
to  the  west.  There  were  the  little  clumps  of  nursery 
trees,  the  green  patches  of  seedlings,  and,  dotted  through 
the  working  area,  men  with  backs  bent  over  the  rows. 
She  wondered  if  Osmond  were  there,  and  the  thought 
gave  her,  if  not  courage,  at  least  the  defiance  that  an 
swers  for  it.  MacLeod  threw  himself  on  the  ground, 
and  her  eyes  came  back  to  him.  He  looked  so  strong, 
so  much  a  part  of  all  living  things,  that  he  seemed  to  her 
invincible.  He  spoke  quite  seriously,  as  if  there  were 
matters  between  them  to  be  gravely  settled. 

"I  have  been  wondering  about  the  bearing  of  these 
people  toward  you.  What  explanation  did  you  make 
when  you  came?" 

"I  made  no  explanation." 

"What  attitude  did  you  take?" 

"Peter  introduced  me  to  her.  He  went  in  advance, 
to  tell  her  I  was  coming." 

"Electra?" 

"Yes,  Tom's  sister." 

"What  did  Peter  tell  her?" 

"He  told  her  I  was  her  brother's  wife." 

"Ah!  and  she  accepted  you?" 

"No,  she  has  never  accepted  me." 

"What!" 

He  glanced  sharply  up  at  her,  and  she  met  the  look 
coldly.  Her  cheeks  were  burning,  but  there  was  nothing 
willingly  responsive  in  her  face.  She  repeated  it:  "Peter 
told  her  Tom  had  married  me.  I  have  reason  to  think 
she  told  him  she  did  not  believe  it." 

"Has  Peter  said  that  to  you?" 
200 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"No,  but  I  think  so." 

"Did  she  send  for  you,  to  go  to  see  her?" 

"No,  I  went  without  it." 

"Now,  how  did  she  receive  you  ?  "  His  voice  betrayed 
an  amiable  curiosity.  He  might  have  been  interested 
merely  in  the  vagaries  of  human  nature,  and  particu 
larly  because  Electra,  as  a  handsome,  willful  creature, 
had  paces  to  be  noted.  Rose  laughed  a  little,  in  a  way 
that  jarred  on  him.  He  liked  mirth  to  sound  like  mirth. 

"She  was  civil  to  me.  But  she  has  never  once  given 
me  Tom's  name,  nor  has  she  allowed  me  to  introduce 
myself  by  it." 

"The  old  lady  used  it." 

"That  was  because  I  followed  an  impulse  one  day 
and  told  her.  She  followed  an  impulse  and  used  it. 
She  is  a  naughty  old  lady." 

"Ah!"  He  considered  for  a  moment.  "  If  she  did 
believe  you,  is  it  your  impression  she  would  expect  you 
to  — inherit?" 

"I  would  n't  have  it."  Her  face  quivered  all  over. 
"I  never  thought  of  that  for  a  moment.  Can't  you  see 
why  I  came  ?  I  was  beside  myself  in  Paris.  There  were 
you,  hurrying  back  from  the  East  and  bringing  —  him." 

"The  prince?" 

"You  had  written  me  he  would  come  with  you.  When 
he  saw  me  again,  you  said,  he  would  not  take  'no.'  Peter 
was  going  home.  Kind  Peter!  He  said,  'Why  don't 
you  come  with  me?'  He  said  Electra  was  beautiful, 
quite  the  most  beautiful  person  in  the  world.  I  thought 
she  would  receive  me.  I  could  tell  another  woman  — 
and  so  kind !  —  everything,  and  I  could  settle  down 

201 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

for  a  little  among  simple  people  and  get  rested  before — " 
She  stopped,  and  he  knew  what  she  had  meant  to 
say:  "Before  you  and  your  prince  began  pursuing  me 
again." 

But  he  did  not  answer  that.  It  was  a  part  of  his  large 
kindliness  never  to  perpetuate  harsh  conclusions,  even 
by  accepting  them. 

"I  shall  go  to  see  your  Electra  at  once,"  he  said. 

She  raised  a  forbidding  hand. 

"Do  nothing  of  the  kind.    I  insist  on  that." 

But  he  was  again  reflecting. 

"That  puzzles  me,"  he  said  at  last;  "that  she  should 
receive  you  at  all  if  she  does  not  believe  you.  Why?" 

She  looked  at  him  steadfastly  for  a  moment,  a  satiri 
cal  smile  coming  on  her  face.  These  emotions  he  was 
awakening  in  her  made  her  an  older  woman. 

"I  really  believe  you  don't  know,"  she  said  at  length. 

"Certainly  I  don't  know." 

"Why,  it's  you!"  He  stared  at  her.  It  was,  she  saw, 
an  honest  wonder.  "She  adores  you.  They  all  do,  all 
her  ladies.  They  meet  and  talk  over  things,  and  you 
are  the  biggest  thing  of  all.  I  am  the  daughter  of  Mark- 
ham  MacLeod.  That  is  what  she  calls  me." 

"I  see."  He  mused  again.  "I  must  go  over  there 
to-night." 

"No !  no !  no !"  It  was  an  ascending  scale  of  entreaty, 
but  he  did  not  regard  it.  He  got  up  and  offered  her  his 
hand. 

"Come,"  he  said.  "Peter  will  be  back.  By  the  way," 
he  added,  as  she  followed  him  laggingly,  "does  Peter 
know  why  you  came  to  America?" 

202 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Peter  thought  it  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
to  wish  to  be  with  Tom's  relations." 

"You  have  n't  told  him  about  the  prince?" 

"I  have  been  entirely  loyal  to  you  —  with  Peter. 
Don't  be  afraid.  He,  too,  adores  you." 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  At  the  house  they  found 
grannie,  now  in  her  afternoon  muslin,  cheerfully  ready 
for  a  new  guest,  and  Peter  in  extreme  delight  at  seeing 
him. 

Markham  MacLeod,  once  in  his  own  room,  sat  down 
and  stretched  his  legs  before  him.  As  he  ruminated, 
his  face  fell  into  lines.  Nobody  ever  saw  them,  —  even 
he,  —  because  in  public,  and  before  his  glass,  he  had 
a  way  of  plumping  himself  into  cheerfulness.  His  tor 
tuous  thoughts  were  for  his  inmost  mind.  Whatever 
he  planned,  no  one  knew  he  was  planning;  only  his 
results  came  to  him  in  the  eye  of  the  world. 


XVII 

AFTER  supper,  which  had  been,  grannie  thought, 
a  brilliant  occasion,  MacLeod  took  his  hat  and 
said  to  Peter,  with  an  air  of  proposing  the  simplest  pos 
sible  thing, — 

"I  am  going  over  to  pay  my  respects  to  your  neigh 
bor." 

Peter  stared  frankly. 

"She  was  so  kind  as  to  invite  me  to  luncheon,  you 
know,"  MacLeod  explained  from  the  doorway.  "I 
want  to  call  at  once." 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Peter. 

"No,  no!  It's  a  first  occasion.  She'll  want  to  cate 
chise  me,  and  you've  heard  all  the  answers.  I  rather 
depend  on  her  putting  straight  questions." 

It  was  not  the  custom  to  wonder  at  MacLeod.  What 
ever  he  did  bore  the  stamp  of  privilege.  He  was  "the 
chief."  So  he  walked  away  through  the  summer  dusk, 
and  Peter  and  Rose,  on  the  veranda,  talked  Paris  while 
grannie  listened,  in  a  pleasant  daze,  not  always  sure, 
through  age's  necromancy,  whether  all  the  movement 
and  action  of  their  tone  and  subject  belonged  to  the 
reality  they  knew,  or  to  her  own  dream  of  a  land  she 
never  saw. 

Electra,  the  lights  turned  low,  was  sitting  at  the  piano, 
nursing  her  discontent.  She  could  hear  the  murmur  of 
Madam  Fulton's  voice  from  the  next  room,  broken  by 
pauses  when  the  old  lady  waited  for  Billy  Stark  to  laugh. 

204 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

It  all  made  Electra  feel  very  much  alone.  Perhaps  she 
had  gone  to  the  piano  in  a  tacit  emulation  of  the  mastery 
Rose  had  shown,  to  see  if,  by  a  happy  miracle,  she  also 
could  bring  to  birth  some  of  those  magical  things  she 
never  knew  she  felt  until  she  heard  others  expressing 
them.  But  when  she  struck  a  chord,  it  was  no  richer 
and  no  more  responsive  than  she  remembered  it  in  her 
old  practicing  days.  Then  she  tried  singing  a  little :  — 

"  '  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes.'  " 

And  all  the  time  she  was  recalling  the  liquid  flow  of 
another  voice,  its  restrained  fervor  and  dying  falls.  A 
thing  so  beautiful  as  this  song,  so  simple,  had  its  root, 
she  began  dimly  to  feel,  not  in  happy  love  but  in  de 
spair,  and  as  it  often  happened  with  her,  she  seemed 
to  be  timidly  reaching  out  chilled  fingers  toward  emo 
tions  she  feared  because  they  were  so  unrestrained, 
and  yet  which  had  to  be  reckoned  with  because  the 
famous  people  made  them  of  such  account ;  they  were 
like  the  earth  where  all  creative  power  has  life. 

Electra  had  given  carefully  apportioned  time  to  music. 
She  knew  something  of  harmony,  in  a  painstaking  way ; 
but  at  this  moment  she  felt  more  than  ever  outside  the 
house  of  song.  She  was  always  having  these  experiences, 
always  finding  herself  face  to  face  with  artists  of  vari 
ous  sorts,  men  and  women  who,  without  effort,  as  it 
seemed,  could  coax  trees  out  of  the  ground  and  make 
them  blossom  before  your  eyes.  And  sometimes  she 
had  this  breathless  feeling  that  the  incredible  might 
happen  and  she,  too,  might  do  some  of  these  amazing 
things.  Often,  it  seemed  to  h6r,  she  was  very  near  it. 

205 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

The  turning  of  a  key  in  the  lock,  a  wind  driving  through 
vapor,  and  she  might  be  on  the  stage  of  the  world,  no 
longer  wondering  but  making  others  wonder.  These 
were  real  hungers.  She  wanted  great  acknowledged 
supremacies,  and  her  own  neat  ways  of  action  had  to 
end  ingloriously. 

And  at  the  moment  MacLeod  came  up  the  steps, 
without  hesitation  she  went  to  meet  him.  Any  one  that 
night  might  have  been  a  messenger  from  the  richer 
world  she  coveted.  She  saw  him  there  smiling  at  her 
in  the  dim  hall  light,  and  the  old  feeling  came  back 
that  she  had  known  him  before  and  waited  for  him  a 
long  time.  They  had  touched  hands  and  he  had  gone 
with  her  to  the  sitting-room  before  she  realized  that 
such  silent  meetings  were  not  the  ordinary  ones. 

"Did  Peter  come  with  you  ? "  she  asked  unnecessarily. 

"No.    He  wanted  to." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you!" 

MacLeod  spared  no  time. 

"You  have  been  very  kind,"  he  said,  "to  my  little 
girl." 

Rose,  as  any  sort  of  little  girl,  implied  an  incredible 
diminishing;  but  the  phrase  served  in  the  interest  of 
conversational  ease.  Electra's  eyes  were  on  him,  ab 
sorbed  and  earnest.  There  was  nothing  she  believed 
in  so  much,  at  that  moment,  as  the  clarity  of  MacLeod's 
mind  and  heart.  It  seemed  belittling  him  even  to  with 
draw  into  the  coverts  of  ordinary  talk,  and,  if  she  wanted 
his  testimony,  to  surprise  it  out  of  him  by  stale  devices. 
She  was  worshiping  the  truth  very  hard,  and  there  was 
no  effort  in  putting  her  question  crudely :  — 

206 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Mr.  MacLeod,  was  your  daughter  married  to  my 
brother?" 

He  met  her  gaze  with  the  assurance  she  had  expected. 
It  seemed  noble  to  her.  At  last,  Electra  reflected  with 
a  throb  of  pride,  she  was  on  the  heights  in  worthy 
company. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  not  hesitating,  "she  was  his  wife." 

Electra  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Then,"  she  answered,  "I  shall  know  what  to  do." 

He  bent  toward  her  an  embracing  look.  It  promised 
her  a  great  deal:  comprehension,  sympathy,  almost  a 
kind  of  love. 

"What  shall  you  do?"  he  asked. 

Electra  choked  a  little.  Her  throat  hurt  her,  not  at 
the  loss  of  what  she  was  going  to  relinquish,  but  at  the 
greatness  of  sacrifice  with  somebody  by  to  take  cogni 
zance  of  the  act.  He  would  not,  like  Madam  Fulton, 
call  her  a  fool.  He  might  even  see  where  the  action 
placed  her,  on  ground  he  also  had  a  right  to,  from 
other  deeds  as  noble. 

"  I  supposed  I  had  inherited  my  brother's  property," 
she  said,  in  a  low  and  penetrating  voice.  "  I  shall  make 
it  over  to  her." 

MacLeod  put  out  his  hand,  and  she  laid  hers  within 
it.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  with  a  moved  restraint. 

"That  is  a  good  deal  to  do." 

"  It  is  incumbent  on  me  —  ethically."  At  that  instant 
she  had  a  throb  of  high  triumph  in  remembering  that 
he,  at  least,  would  not  gird  at  her  choice  of  terms. 

"It  is  what  you  would  do,"  he  said  warmly.  "It  is 
exactly  what  you  would  do." 

207 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  cannot  do  otherwise." 

They  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  antiphonal  praises 
of  abstract  right.  It  gave  Electra  a  solemn  satisfaction. 
She  could  hardly  leave  the  subject.  "I  wish  to  do 
everything  in  my  power,"  she  announced.  "I  cannot 
ask  her  to  live  here,  because  I  may  not  be  here  long 
myself." 

"You  will  marry  Peter  and  go  away!" 

Electra  felt  her  face  growing  warm  in  the  dusk,  and 
an  unreasonable  vexation  possessed  her  against  any 
one  who  should  have  mapped  out  her  purposes  and 
given  him  the  chart.  He  might  know  her.  He  was  evi 
dently  destined  to,  she  intemperately  thought,  better 
than  any  one  else,  but  she  could  herself  induct  him 
into  the  paths  of  intimacy.  There  was  no  pleasure  in 
feeling  that  he  was  bound  to  prejudge  her  through 
cognizance  of  this  other  tie  she  had  for  the  moment 
forgotten. 

"Did  Peter  tell  you  that?"  she  asked. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  guessed  it." 

His  frankness  put  her  back  on  their  pleasant  ground 
of  intimacy;  it  even  brought  them  nearer. 

"Why  did  you  guess  it?" 

Here  was  foolish  talk,  she  following  upon  the  heels 
of  his  venture,  as  if  there  were  something  in  the  very 
dust  of  his  progress  too  precious  to  be  lost.  But  Mac 
Leod,  who  cared  nothing  about  inanities  once  their 
purpose  was  served,  whirled  her  away  from  further 
challenge  and  reply. 

"  You  must  come  to  Paris,"  he  said ;  "  with  or  with 
out  Peter,  you  must  come." 

208 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Her  heart  warmed  and  her  voice  trembled  as  she 
answered,  — 

"I  should  like  it.   I  should  like  nothing  better." 

"You  have  been  in  Europe?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  for  a  year  at  a  time.  Three  times  in  all." 

"Lately?" 

"No.    The  last  time  I  was  very  young." 

"  You  will  see  things  with  different  eyes." 

He  seemed  to  be  promising  her  something,  in  the 
fervor  of  his  speech.  Some  one  had  said  of  him  once 
that,  in  talking  to  women,  he  always  said  "you"  as 
if  it  meant  "you  and  I."  It  may  not  have  been  to 
women  alone.  Young  men  felt  that  in  the  reconstruc 
tion  of  the  earth  it  would  not  be  merely  MacLeod  who 
led  the  van,  but  MacLeod  and  each  one  of  them. 

"I  should  like,"  she  dared,  "to  see  the  things  you 
are  doing.  I  should  like  to  know  —  the  Brother 
hood." 

"  You  shall  know  it.  There  are  as  many  women  in  it 
as  men.  When  the  starving  citizens  marched  up  to 
Paris  to  ask  King  Louis  for  bread,  the  women's  voices 
were  loudest,  I  fancy.  There  is  no  distinction  in  our 
membership.  Men  and  women  serve  alike." 

"When  could  I  join  it?" 

"Not  too  fast,  dear  lady."  He  was  smiling  at  her. 
That  warm  tone  of  personal  consideration  soothed 
her  through  the  dusk.  "It  involves  hardship,  the  lay 
ing  down  of  self.  Are  you  ready  for  that  ?  " 

"I  am  ready,"  said  Electra.  Her  heart  beat  high. 
At  last  life  seemed  large  enough  and  rich  enough  to 
satisfy  her. 

209 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  Your  entire  allegiance  and  a  tenth  of  your  income," 
he  went  on.  "Do  not  pledge  it  unless  you  can  keep 
the  pledge." 

"  I  promise.    I  pledge  it,  myself  and  all  I  have." 

In  her  uplifted  state,  it  seemed  as  if  some  spell  had 
been  laid  upon  her,  and  she  sought  to  recall  her  lost 
composure.  The  occasion,  she  knew,  was  a  very  large 
one,  and  she  must  not,  she  earnestly  thought,  deprive 
it  of  dignity.  He  rose. 

"  Stand  up,"  he  said ;  and  she  also  was  upon  her  feet, 
with  a  swift  compliance.  "Give  me  your  hand."  She 
laid  her  hand  in  his.  "Do  you  believe  in  the  Brother 
hood  of  Man  ?  " 

To  say  "yes"  was  not  enough.  She  repeated  the 
words,  — 

"I  believe  in  the  Brotherhood  of  Man." 

They  stood  so  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  released 
her  hand. 

"That  is  all,"  he  said. 

Electra  felt  as  if  she  had  sworn  allegiance  not  only 
to  some  unknown  majesty,  but  to  him,  and  she  was 
ineffably  exalted.  They  two  seemed  to  be  together  in 
a  world  of  wTong,  pledged  to  right  it,  and  taking  the 
highest  delight  in  their  joint  ministrations. 

"When  do  I" —  she  hesitated  —  "when  do  I  pay 
in  —  money  ?  " 

"Twice  a  year,"  he  answered  cheerfully.  "Peter 
will  tell  you  those  things,  if  I  am  not  here." 

If  he  were  not  there !  Her  wings  of  pleasure  drooped. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  were  always  to  be  there.  And  Peter! 
he  looked  like  a  small  and  callow  personage  seen  through 

210 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

the  diminishing  end  of  a  glass,  compared  with  this 
great  presence. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said,  and  Electra  pulled  herself  out 
of  her  maze.  "May  I  tell  my  daughter  you  accept  her  ? " 
He  made  it  all  very  delicate  and  yet  prosaic,  as  if  he 
quite  understood  Rose  could  hardly  expect  to  be  re 
ceived  without  difficulty,  but  as  if  Electra  had  made  it 
magnificently  possible.  Still  she  felt  a  little  recoil. 

"I  can't  talk  about  it,"  she  faltered,  "to  her.  I  could 
to  you.  Let  me  settle  all  the  details,  and  my  lawyer 
shall  submit  them  to  you.  Would  that  satisfy  you?" 

She  spoke  humbly,  and  Markham  MacLeod,  the 
chief  of  the  Brotherhood,  bent  over  her  hand  and 
touched  it  with  his  lips.  Then  he  was  gone,  and  Electra 
was  left  standing  with  that  incredibly  precious  kiss  upon 
her  hand.  She  was  poor  in  imagination,  but  at  the 
instant  it  flashed  into  her  mind  that  this  was  actually 
the  touch  of  the  coal  red  from  the  altar. 

Markham  MacLeod,  walking  with  long  strides 
through  the  summer  night,  drew  in  deep  breaths,  and 
delighted,  for  the  moment,  in  the  voluptuousness  of  his 
own  good  health  and  the  wonder  that  he  had  been  able 
to  carry  youth  on  into  middle  age.  He  had  not  been 
accustomed  to  think  about  the  past  or  what  might  come. 
It  was  enough  to  recognize  the  harmonious  interplay 
of  his  muscles  and  the  daily  stability  of  a  body  which 
until  now,  and  that  briefly,  had  shown  no  sign  of  revolt. 
What  insurrection  there  was  he  meant  to  quell,  and 
meantime  to  forget  its  possibility,  as  a  chief  may,  for 
the  time,  ignore  rebellion.  MacLeod  was  plagued 
neither  by  unsatisfied  desires  nor  by  remorse.  In  his 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

philosophy,  to  live  meant  to  feed  upon  the  earth  as  it 
appeared  to  the  eye  and  to  the  other  senses.  He  be 
lieved,  without  argument,  that  all  the  hungers  in  him 
were  good  lusty  henchmen  demanding  food.  Now,  in 
spite  of  certain  grim  warnings  he  had  had  of  late,  he 
was  filled  with  the  old  buoyant  feeling  that  his  body 
was  a  well-to-do  republic  with  his  own  impartial  self 
at  the  head  of  it.  Justice  should  be  done  to  all  its  mem 
bers  that  they  might  live  in  harmony.  If  discomforting 
forces  assailed  the  republic,  they  must  be  crushed. 
Some  of  these  he  might  have  recognized  as  regrets,  the 
sort  of  spectre  that  was  ready  to  visit  Napoleon  on  a 
night  after  the  campaign  in  Egypt.  They  were,  he 
thought,  inseparable  from  great  power  and  the  neces 
sities  attending  its  administration.  But  they  were  ene 
mies  of  the  republic,  and  he  killed  them.  So  his  voice 
was  always  hearty,  his  eye  clear,  and  his  cheek  that 
healthy  red. 

Peter  he  found  in  fits  of  laughter,  and  Rose  mimicking 
certain  characters  known  to  them  in  Paris.  It  was  en 
couraging,  he  judged,  to  find  Rose  out  of  her  dumps. 
But  she  was  only  keeping  Peter  by  her  until  MacLeod 
should  come  and  help  detain  him.  Peter  had  said  some 
thing  in  the  early  evening  about  going  down  to  find 
Osmond,  who  had  of  late,  he  averred,  been  off  at  night 
on  his  deep  wood  prowls.  "No,"  Rose  wanted  to  say, 
—  and  there  would  have  been  a  choking  triumph  in  her 
throat,  —  "he  has  been  in  the  playhouse  waiting  for 
me."  And  because  she  could  not  go  that  night  to  the 
wide  liberty  of  the  fields,  she  would  not  have  Peter 
wandering  off  that  way  and  hunting  up  her  playmate, 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

breaking  spells  and  spoiling  wordless  messages.  Mac 
Leod  had  not  seen  her  so  gay,  not  since  the  days  in 
Paris  before  she  met  Tom  Fulton,  when  she  had  been 
one  of  a  changing  wave  of  artist  life,  made  up  of  stu 
dents  delirious  with  possibilities  and  all  bent  toward 
the  top  notch  of  reputation.  He  joined  her  and  Peter 
now  in  precisely  their  own  mood,  his  laugh  and  voice 
reinforcing  theirs.  Rose  warmed  more  and  more.  Not 
all  her  dreary  memories  could  keep  her  from  delighting 
in  him.  He  carried  her  along  on  that  high  wave  of 
splendid  spirits,  oblivious  for  the  moment  to  all  his 
faults.  Thus,  she  paused  to  remember  again,  it  had 
been  in  her  too-wise  childhood  when,  seeing  her  mother 
wan  with  tears,  she  had  yet  put  her  little  hand  in  his  and 
gone  off  with  him  for  an  hour's  pleasuring,  though  he 
was  the  fount  of  grief  as  well  as  gayety.  He  compelled 
her,  the  sheer  physical  health  of  him. 

Peter  rose  finally,  to  give  them  a  moment  alone,  and 
wandered  off  down  the  garden,  singing  a  light  song 
and  then  whistling  it  farther  and  farther  into  the  dark. 
Something  constricted  the  girl's  throat.  She  remem 
bered,  in  the  silence  fallen  between  them,  that  she  was 
alone  with  the  enemy  of  her  peace,  and  felt  again  that 
old  passionate  regret  that  he  had  not  allowed  her  to 
keep  the  beauty  of  her  belief  in  him.  He  had  swept 
away  something  she  had  thought  to  be  indestructible. 
That,  more  than  any  deed,  was  the  wrong  he  had  done 
—  he  had  set  his  foot  upon  the  flower  of  hope.  But 
MacLeod,  his  forehead  bared  to  the  night  air,  hummed 
to  himself  the  song  Peter  was  singing,  and  then  spoke 
with  a  commonplace  assurance :  — 

213 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"  She  asked  me  the  question." 

"Electra?" 

"Yes.  She  asked  me  plainly  whether  he  married 
you." 

"  She  asked  you !   How  could  she  ?  " 

"She  did  it  without  preamble.  It  was  really  rather 
magnificent." 

"  Did  you  answer  without  preamble  ?  " 

"I  think  so.  At  all  events,  it  contented  her.  I  said, 
'yes,'  —  not  much  more,  if  anything." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  he  felt  her  deter 
mination  to  remain  outside  the  issue,  even  to  the 
extent  of  denying  herself  the  further  news  he  brought. 
When  that  became  apparent,  he  spoke  again,  rather 
lightly :  - 

"  She  took  my  assurance  without  question.  She  said 
she  should  know  what  to  do." 

"What  will  she  do?" 

"  The  simplest  thing  possible  —  make  over  Tom's 
money  to  you.  She  does  n't  consider,  apparently, 
whether  you  are  entitled  to  the  whole  of  it,  any  more 
than  she  had  previously  guessed  that,  if  your  claim 
were  just,  you  could  have  pushed  it  without  her  con 
currence.  She  is  a  very  intemperate  person." 

Rose  did  not  intend  to  comment  on  the  situation, 
however  warmly  she  might  express  herself  over  Electra's 
personal  standpoint. 

"Electra  did  not  strike  me  as  intemperate,"  she 
said.  "  She  seemed  to  me  very  collected,  very  cold  and 
resolute." 

"  Yes,  but  her  reactions !  they  'd  be  something  fright- 
214 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

ful.   I  can  fancy  that  pendulum  swinging  just  as  far  the 
other  way.   They  are  terrifying,  those  women." 

"  How  are  they  terrifying  ?  " 

Governing  the  wild  forces  in  herself  at  that  minute, 
she  felt  as  if  all  women  were  terrifying  when  they  are 
driven  too  far,  and  that  all  men  might  well  beware  of 
them.  MacLeod  rose,  and  stretched  himself  upward 
in  a  muscular  abandon. 

"Good-night,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  up 
stairs.  I  will  see  her  again  to-morrow.  You  need  give 
yourself  no  uneasiness  about  the  outcome.  You  need  n't 
even  concern  yourself  with  the  details.  I  shall  arrange 
them  with  her." 

Rose  was  quickly  upon  her  feet.  She  felt  more  his 
equal  so  than  when  he  towered  above  her  at  ftiat  height. 

"If  you  see  her,"  she  threatened,  "I  will  overturn 
everything." 

"  No,  no,  you  would  n't.  Run  upstairs  now  and  go 
to  bed.  You  are  overwrought.  This  whole  thing  has 
been  a  strain  on  you." 

"  Yes."  She  spoke  rapidly  and  in  a  low  tone,  fearing 
grannie's  window  above.  "  It  has  been  a  strain  on  me. 
But  who  brought  it  on  ?  I  did  it  myself.  I  must  meet 
it.  But  I  will  not  have  you  meddling  with  it.  I  will 
not." 

"Not  to-night,  at  least,"  said  MacLeod,  with  un 
blemished  kindliness.  "  Don't  do  anything  intemperate. 
But  you  won't.  I  know  you  too  well." 

After  a  good-night  she  could  not  answer  he  went  in 
and  up  the  stairs.  She  could  hear  him  humming  to 
himself  that  gay  little  song.  She  stood  there  quite  still, 

215 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

as  if  she  were  in  hiding  from  him  and  he  might  return 
to  find  her.  When  the  door  closed  above,  she  still  stood 
there,  her  nails  clasped  into  her  palms.  And  for  the 
instant  she  was  not  thinking  of  herself,  but  of  Electra. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  protect 
Electra  from  his  charm.  Then  she  heard  Peter  whistling 
back  again.  She  stepped  down  to  the  end  of  the  veranda 
and  stole  across  the  orchard  into  the  field.  The  night 
was  still,  yet  invisible  forces  seemed  to  be  whispering 
to  one  another.  In  the  middle  of  the  field  she  stopped, 
tempted  to  call  to  Osmond,  knowing  he  was  there. 
But  because  it  was  late,  and  because  her  thoughts 
were  all  a  disordered  and  protesting  turmoil,  she  turned 
about  and  fled  home. 


XVIII 

THE  next  night  Rose  went  early  to  her  own  room, 
and  when  she  heard  Peter  and  MacLeod  on  the 
veranda,  their  voices  continuing  in  a  steady  interchange, 
she  took  her  cloak,  locked  the  chamber  door  behind  her, 
and  ran  downstairs  and  out  by  the  long  window  to  the 
garden,  the  orchard,  and  the  field.  The  night  was  dark 
and  hot,  and  over  in  the  south  played  fitful  lightnings. 
In  spite  of  the  heat,  she  wrapped  her  cloak  about  her 
for  an  invisible  shield :  for  now  that  MacLeod  had  come, 
she  felt  strangely  insecure,  as  if  eyes  were  everywhere. 
It  was  apparent  to  her  that  these  meetings  might  be 
few,  and  as  if  this  even  might  be  the  last ;  so  it  must  not 
be  interrupted.  When  she  was  once  in  the  field,  the  hush 
of  the  night,  the  heat,  and  her  own  uneasy  thoughts 
bewildered  her.  She  stopped  in  doubt.  His  voice 
assured  her. 

"  This  way,  playmate." 

"I  am  coming,"  she  found  herself  answering,  not 
once  but  twice,  and  then,  as  she  reached  the  seat  he 
had  ready  for  her,  it  came  upon  her  overwhelmingly 
that  such  gladness  was  of  the  scope  and  tumult  to  bear 
two  creatures  to  each  other's  arms,  to  mingle  there,  face 
to  face  and  breast  to  breast. 

But  the  quick  thought  neither  threw  her  back  in 
shame  upon  herself  nor  forward  to  his  side.  The  night 
and  the  things  of  life  together  were  too  great  to  admit 
of  fine  timidities  or  crude  betrayals.  It  was  not  of  so 

217 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

much  avail  to  consider  what  was  done  as  whether  the 
deed  was  true.  She  sat  down,  in  deep  relief  at  finding 
herself  near  him. 

"Playmate,"  she  said,  "things  are  very  bad  indeed." 

"  Are  they,  my  dear  playmate  ?  " 

Her  breath  came  in  a  sob,  his  voice  sounded  so  kind, 
so  altogether  merciful  of  her,  whatever  she  might  do. 

"Dreadful  things  are  happening,"  she  said. 

"  The  prince  ?  " 

"  Not  the  prince,  this  time.   Worse  things." 

"Tell  me,  child." 

She  had  ceased  to  be  altogether  his  playmate.  Deeper 
needs  had  called  out  keener  sympathies,  and  she  found 
some  comfort  even  in  his  altered  tone.  She  waited  for  a 
time,  listening  to  the  summer  sounds,  and  vainly  wishing 
she  had  been  a  more  fortunate  woman,  and  that  th»se 
sad  steps  need  not  be  retraced  in  retrospect  before  life 
could  go  on  again. 

"  You  will  have  to  listen  to  a  long  story,"  she  said  at 
last.  "  And  how  am  I  to  tell  you !  Ask  me  questions." 

"How  far  shall  I  go  back?" 

"  To  the  beginning  —  to  the  beginning  of  my  growing 
up.  Before  I  met  Tom  Fulton." 

"When  you  meant  to  sing?" 

"  I  did  sing.  But  you  must  n't  think  that  was  what 
I  wanted.  I  never  wanted  anything  but  love." 

"Go  on."  To  him,  who,  in  his  solitude,  had  never 
expected  to  find  close  companionship,  it  was  incon 
ceivable  that  they  should  be  there  speaking  the  uncon- 
sidered  truth.  She,  too,  who,  in  the  world,  had  tasted 
the  likeness  of  happy  intercourse,  only  to  despair  of  it, 

218 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

had  found  a  goal.  Here  now  was  the  real  to  which  all 
the  old  promises  had  been  leading. 

"You  must  understand  me,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"I'm  going  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth.  How  awful  if 
you  did  n't  understand ! " 

"I  shall  understand.   Go  on." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  other  girls,  but  always 
I  dreamed  of  love,  always  after  my  first  childhood.  I 
thought  of  kings  and  queens,  knights  and  ladies.  They 
walked  in  pairs  and  loved  each  other." 

"What  did  you  mean  by  love?" 

"  Each  would  die  for  the  other.  That  was  my  under 
standing  of  it.  I  knew  the  time  would  come  some  day 
when  a  beautiful  young  man  would  say  to  me,  *  I  would 
die  for  you,'  and  I  should  say  to  him, '  And  I  would  die 
for  you.'  It  was  a  kind  of  dream.  Maybe  it  would  not 
have  been,  except  that  I  was  never  much  of  a  child 
when  I  was  a  child.  I  had  ecstatic  times  with  my  father, 
but  I  was  lonesome.  The  lover  was  to  change  that, 
when  he  came." 

"When  did  he  come?" 

"  He  came  several  times,  but  either  he  was  too  rough 
and  he  frightened  me,  or  too  common  and  he  repelled 
me,  or  —  " 

"  And  Tom  Fulton  came ! " 

"  Yes,  walking  just  the  right  way,  neither  too  fast  nor 
too  slow,  and  all  chivalry  and  honor.  Oh,  my  heart! 
my  heart!"  She  was  sobbing  to  herself. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"So  you  married  him,"  Osmond  reminded  her. 

"  Osmond ! "  At  last  she  had  said  his  name.  She 
219 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

knew  it  with  her  mind,  but  how  did  her  heart  have  it  so 
ready?  To  him  it  seemed  natural  that  she  should  use 
it,  until  he  thought  of  it  next  day.  She  continued  in 
that  hurried  voice  that  pleaded  so,  "I  must  make  you 
see  how  I  had  thought  of  those  things  always." 

"  What  things,  dear  child  ?  " 

"Loving  and  being  loved.  It  was  like  your  plants, 
coming  to  flower.  There  was  to  be  one  person  who 
would  give  me  a  perfect  devotion.  There  would  be 
music  and  dancing  and  bright  weather,  day  after  day, 
year  after  year.  That  was  coming  to  flower,  like  your 
plants." 

"A  rose  in  bloom!"  he  murmured. 

"It  was  a  kind  of  possession  with  me.  I  can't 
tell  you  what  hold  it  took  on  me.  There  were  years 
when  I  tried  not  to  have  a  wrong  thought  or  do  an 
ugly  act,  so  that  I  could  be  beautiful  to  him  when  he 
came." 

"Behold,  the  bridegroom  cometh!"  mused  the  voice, 
in  involuntary  comment,  as  if  it  responded  to  the  man's 
own  wondering  mood. 

"He  came.  He  made  himself  irresistible  to  me.  He 
knew  my  father  first." 

"  Were  they  friends  ?  " 

"  My  father  has  no  friends  —  not  as  you  would  under 
stand  it.  He  touches  people  at  one  little  point.  They 
think  they  have  everything;  but  it  is  nothing.  Still, 
they  understood  each  other.  My  father  sold  me  to 
him." 

There  was  silence  from  the  darkness  under  the  tree; 
only  she  heard  him  breathe. 

220 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  was  to  blame,  too,"  she  cried.  "But  I  did  not  see 
it  then.  I  truly  did  not  see  it.  My  father  told  me  it  was 
nobler  and  purer  to  go  with  my  lover  so.  Marriage, 
he  said,  had  been  profaned  a  million,  million  times. 
Where  was  the  sacrament,  he  asked,  in  a  church  that 
was  all  rotten  ?  He  told  me  so,  too  —  Tom  Fulton.  I 
went  with  him.  I  never  married  him."  She  paused  for 
the  answering  voice,  but  it  delayed.  The  silence  itself 
constrained  her  to  go  on.  "  Do  you  know  what  Tom 
Fulton  was?" 

"  He  was  a  handsome  beast." 

"You  never  knew  the  half.  But  my  father  knew. 
He  knew  men.  He  knew  Tom  Fulton.  And  he  delivered 
me  over  to  the  snare  of  the  fowler.  I  lived  a  year  with 
him.  I  left  him.  He -had  the  accident,  and  I  went  back. 
He  died.  I  thanked  God." 

Osmond  had  not  often,  to  his  remembrance,  formu 
lated  gratitude  to  any  great  power,  but  he  also  said, 
"  Thank  God ! "  In  a  way  he  did  not  understand,  she 
seemed  to  him  austere  in  her  purity  and  her  rebellion 
against  these  bitter  facts.  There  was  no  hesitation  and 
no  shame.  She  had  only  wrong  to  remember,  not  will 
ful  sin.  One  thing  he  had  to  know.  He  asked  his  ques 
tion.  "  Was  Fulton  —  kind  to  you  ?  " 

"At  first.    Not  at  the  last." 

"  How  was  he  —  not  kind  ?  " 

That,  too,  she  was  apparently  thinking  out. 

"I  can  hardly  tell  you,"  she  said  at  length.  "He 
seemed  to  hate  me." 

"You!" 

"I  have  seen  the  same  thing  twice,  with  other  men 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

and  other  women.    You  see,  it  was  a  terrible  blow  to 
him  —  his  vanity,  his  pride  —  to  stop  loving  me." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"  You  may  not,  ever.  But  he  had  had  unworthy  things 
in  his  life,  attachments,  those  that  last  a  short  time. 
When  he  cared  for  me,  he  thought  he  cared  tremen 
dously.  He  believed  it  would  last.  But  it  did  n't.  He 
had  nothing  left  to  give  me." 

"He  had  gambled  it  away!" 

"  I  think  it  hurt  his  pride.  He  could  only  justify  him 
self  unconsciously  —  it  was  all  unconscious  —  by  find 
ing  fault  with  me.  By  proving  I  was  not  worthy  to  be 
loved.  Do  you  see?" 

"You  are  a  strange  woman  to  have  guessed  that. 
You  must  be  very  clever." 

"  No,  oh,  no !  It  was  because  I  thought  so  hard  about 
it.  For  a  long  time,  night  after  night,  I  thought  of 
nothing  else.  When  it  died  —  what  he  called  love  — 
I  thought  the  world  died,  too." 

"My  dear  good  child!" 

"When  he  was  dead,  what  was  I  to  do?  I  thought 
I  should  sing.  But  my  father  was  coming  from  the  East 
with  another  suitor,  the  prince.  The  prince  had  seen 
me  here  and  there  for  a  couple  of  years.  I  had  always 
been  known  as  Madam  Fulton.  I  called  myself  so  at 
first,  proudly,  honestly.  Then  other  people  called  me 
so,  and  even  when  I  had  left  him,  I  let  them  do  it.  Peter 
stepped  in  then,  honest  Peter  in  his  ignorance.  He 
wondered  why  I  did  n't  come  here  to  Tom's  people. 
Electra  was  a  kind  of  goddess.  I  came.  That  is  all." 
She  paused. 

222 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Osmond  spoke  musingly. 

"So  you  were  not  his  wife!   And  Electra  knew  it." 

"She  did  not  know  it." 

"But  she  suspected  it.    She  refused  to  own  you." 

"She  suspected  me  because  she  knew  Tom  too  well. 
I  believe  he  had  shocked  her  and  frightened  her  until 
his  world  was  all  evil  to  her.  There  was  another  rea 
son."  This  was  a  woman's  reason,  and  she  was  ashamed 
to  have  put  her  finger  on  it.  Electra' s  proud  possession 
of  her  lover  and  her  instant  revolt  at  his  new  partisan 
ship,  what  was  it  but  crude  jealousy?  Yet  there  were 
many  things  she  could  not  even  dimly  understand  in 
Electra's  striving  and  abortive  life  —  the  emulation 
that  reached  so  far  and  met  the  mists  and  vapors  at  the 
end.  "  But  there  was  one  thing  I  did  not  want,"  Rose 
cried — "their  money.  I  never  thought  of  it.  I  only 
thought  how  I  might  come  here  for  a  little  and  be  at 
peace,  away  from  my  father.  Then  when  -Electra  hated 
me,  I  had  to  stay,  I  had  to  fight  it  out.  Why?  I  don't 
know.  I  had  to.  But  now  it's  all  different." 

"How  is  it  different?" 

"Because  she  has  accepted  me." 

"But  you  wanted  her  to  accept  you." 

"Ah,  yes,  on  my  own  word !  I  believe  I  had  it  in  my 
mind  to  tell  her  the  next  minute,  —  to  throw  myself 
on  her  mercy,  the  mercy  of  the  goddess,  and  beg  her  to 
see  me  as  I  was,  all  wrong,  but  innocent.  It  is  innocent 
to  have  meant  no  wrong.  But  when  she  met  me  like 
an  enemy,  I  had  to  fight." 

"And  now  she  has  accepted  you." 

"  Yes."  The  assent  was  bitter.  "  On  my  father's  word." 
223 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"His  word?" 

"  Yes.  He  stands  by  me.  He  confirms  me.  She  asked 
him  if  I  had  been  married  to  her  brother.  'Yes,'  said 
my  father." 

"Why?" 

"  The  money.  Always  that  —  money,  position,  a 
pressure  here,  a  pull  there." 

"  Then "  —  his  tone  seemed  to  demand  her  actual 
meaning —  "your  case  is  won.  Electra  owns  you." 

She  was  on  her  feet  gripping  the  back  of  her  chair 
with  both  hands.  The  rough  wood  hurt  her  and  she 
held  it  tighter. 

"  Range  myself  with  him  —  my  father  ?  Sell  myself 
in  his  company?  No!  When  I  was  fighting  before,  it 
was  from  bravado,  pride,  mean  pride,  the  necessity  of 
the  fight.  But  now,  when  he  confirms  me  —  no!  no! 
no!" 

"We  must  tell  the  truth,"  she  heard  Osmond  mur 
muring  to  himself. 

To  her  also  it  looked  not  only  necessary  but  beautiful. 
There  were  many  things  she  wanted  to  say  to  him  at 
that  moment,  and,  as  she  suddenly  saw,  they  were  all 
in  condonation  of  herself.  Yet  the  passionate  justice 
in  her  flamed  higher  as  she  remembered  again  that  it 
was  true  that  others  had  marked  out  her  way  for  her. 
When  she  walked  in  it,  it  had  been  with  an  exalted 
sense  that  it  was  the  one  way  to  go. 

"I  cannot  understand  about  the  truth,"  she  said. 
"I  can't,  even  now." 

"What  about  it?" 

"Once  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  different  kinds. 
224 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

He  told  me  so  —  my  father.  He  always  said  there  was 
the  higher  truth,  and  that  almost  nobody  could  under 
stand.  Then  there  were  facts.  What  were  facts?  he 
asked.  Often  worse  than  lies." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Osmond.  Whatever  he  might 
say,  he  was  afraid  of  hurting  her.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  express  himself  without  it.  "  Facts  are  all  I  have  had 
to  do  with." 

She  seemed  like  a  bewildered  creature  flying  about 
in  a  confined  space. 

"You  would  n't  say  what  my  father  does,"  she  con 
cluded  miserably.  "  You  would  n't  feel  we  have  a  right 
to  the  higher  truth,  if  we  feel  great  desires,  great  hun 
gers  the  world  would  n't  understand  ?  " 

"  I  only  know  about  facts,"  said  Osmond  again.  "  You 
see,  I  work  in  my  garden  all  day,  nearly  every  day  in 
the  year.  I  know  I  must  sow  good  seed.  I  must  nourish 
it.  I  know  nature  can't  lie.  I  did  n't  suppose  things 
were  so  incomprehensible  out  in  the  world  —  or  so 
hard." 

"  Have  n't  they  been  hard  for  you  ?  " 

"  For  me ! "  He  caught  his  breath,  and  immediately 
she  knew  how  the  question  touched  him.  It  was  as 
monstrous  as  his  fate.  But  he  answered  immediately 
and  with  a  gentleness  without  reproach,  — 

"Things  are  different  for  me  in  every  way.  But  I 
should  have  thought  you  would  reign  over  them  like 
a  queen." 

"  A  queen !  I  have  been  a  slave  all  my  life.  I  see  it 
now.  A  slave  to  other  people's  passions  —  Tom  Ful 
ton's  cruelty,  my  father's  greed." 

225 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"His  greed  for  money?  I  don't  always  understand 
you  when  you  speak  of  him." 

"For  money,  power,  everything  that  makes  up  life. 
My  father  is  one  great  hunger.  Give  him  the  world  and 
he  would  eat  it  up." 

Images  crowded  upon  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  here 
in  the  silence,  with  the  spaces  of  the  dark  about  her  and 
that  voice  answering,  her  thought  was  generated  like 
the  lightning. 

"Do  you  see,"  she  asked  suddenly,  "how  I  blame 
those  two  men,  and  not  myself?  I  am  the  sinner.  The 
sinner  ought  to  own  his  sin.  I  don't  know  whether  I 
have  sinned  or  not.  I  believed  in  love,  and  because 
I  believed  in  it,  those  two  men  betrayed  me.  That 
was  how  I  was  taught  not  to  believe  in  anything." 

"  Don't  you  believe  any  more  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know !  I  don't  know ! "  It  was  a  de 
spairing  cry.  "  There  is  kindness,  I  know  that.  Peter 
is  kind.  Your  grandmother  is  the  kindest  person  in  the 
world.  But  that  one  thing  I  dreamed  about  —  why, 
Osmond,  that  one  thing  was  the  most  beautiful  thing 
God  ever  made." 

"Tell  me  more  about  it." 

"You  have  thought  about  it,  too.  We  can't  be  so 
much  alike,  you  and  I,  and  not  have  thought  the  same 
things." 

"Are  we  alike?" 

It  was  a  wistful  voice.  She  laughed,  a  little  sorry 
laugh. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  at  least  we  are  in  our  playhouse 
together." 

226 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Ah!"  He  seemed  to  speak  in  spite  of  prudence. 
"That's  not  because  we  are  alike.  It  is  because  we  are 
different."  But  he  went  on  at  once,  as  if  to  keep  her 
from  interrogating  that,  or  even  perhaps  remembering 
it.  "I  have  forbidden  myself  to  think  of  some  things. 
When  they  came  upon  me,  I  went  out  and  dug  them 
into  the  ground." 

She  was  filled  that  night  with  an  imperative  sense  of 
life.  It  made  her  forget  even  him  and  his  claim  to  be 
heard.  The  great  resolve  in  her  to  be  for  once  under 
stood  was  like  a  crowning  wave  drenching  the  farthest 
shore. 

"I  have  never  had  enough  of  life,  life,"  she  avowed 
passionately.  "I  have  always  had  the  appearance  of 
it,  the  promise  that  the  next  minute  the  cup  would  be 
given  me.  But  the  cup  was  never  there.  Or  if  it  was, 
there  was  muddy  water  in  it.  The  lights  have  never 
been  bright  enough,  the  music  has  never  gone  on  long 
enough.  Why!"  She  seemed  frightened.  "Is  that  like 
my  father  ?  Do  I  get  that  from  him  ?  " 

"It  is  because  you  are  young,"  said  Osmond.  "And 
because  you  are  beautiful  and  the  world  ought  to  be 
yours  —  to  put  your  foot  on  it." 

The  passion  of  his  voice  recalled  her. 

"No,"  she  answered  humbly.  "Not  to  put  my  foot 
on  anything.  No !  no !  no !  Playmate,"  she  added,  "  you 
are  the  dearest  thing  in  all  the  world." 

The  voice  laughed  out  harshly.  The  man  was  lying 
prone  at  full  length  where  she  could  not  see  him,  his 
hands  upon  the  earth  he  loved,  his  fostering,  yet  un 
heeding  mother  that  had  saved  his  life  for  her  own  ser- 

227 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

vice.  At  that  moment,  it  seemed  to  him,  his  eye  turned 
inward  upon  himself,  as  if  there  were  foolish  irony  in 
that  friendly  comment.  He  looked  to  himself  rather 
one  of  the  earth  forces,  supremely  strong,  waiting  for 
some  power  to  guide  it. 

"Elemental  things  are  no  good  until  they  are  har 
nessed  and  made  to  work,"  he  heard  himself  saying,  as  in 
a  trance;  and  then  it  was  apparent  she  had  not  noticed, 
for  she  went  on,  — 

"  To  be  able  to  speak  to  any  one  as  I  speak  to  you ! 
Playmate,  it  seems  to  me  men  might  as  well  kill  a  child 
as  kill  women's  innocent  faith  in  love." 

"  But  men  love,  too,"  he  heard  himself  answering  her. 

"  If  I  thought  that !  But  when  anything  so  beautiful 
turns  into  something  base,  and  the  creature  we  wor 
shiped  laughs  and  says  it  is  always  so,  he  kills  something 
in  us.  And  he  can't  bring  it  to  life  again.  Neither  he 
nor  any  other  man  can  make  it  live.  It  is  a  dream,  and 
the  thought  of  it  hurts  us  too  much  for  us  even  to  dream 
it  over  again.  —  What  is  that?" 

Out  of  his  web  of  pain  he  could  only  answer,  — 

"What,  playmate?" 

"Something  sweet  in  the  air." 

That  recalled  him  to  his  dear  garden  and  the  homely 
sanities  that  awaited  him.  He  sat  up  and  brushed  the 
wet  hair  from  his  forehead. 

"  It  is  the  lily  field,"  he  said.  "  A  wind  has  risen.  The 
flowers  have  been  coming  out  to-day,  and  you  get  their 
scent."  He  laughed  a  little,  tenderly,  as  at  a  child. 
"You  said  you  never  had  enough  of  anything.  You 
would  have  enough  of  them  if  you  were  there." 

228 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Why  should  I?" 

"The  fragrance  is  so  strong.  You  can  make  your 
self  drunk  with  it." 

"Come,  playmate!  Take  me  there.  Let  us  walk 
through  them  in  the  dark  and  smell  them." 

"No!" 

"Why  not?" 

"It  isn't  good  for  you."  He  spoke  seriously.  "I 
know  all  about  the  preservatives  of  life,  the  medicines 
that  keep  us  sane.  I  know  we  must  n't  go  and  smell 
strong  lilies  at  ten  o'clock  at  night.  We  must  go  home 
and  say  our  prayers  and  brush  our  hair  and  go  to  bed." 

"  Do  you  say  your  prayers  ?  " 

"Not  exactly." 

"But  almost?" 

"Well,  since  I  have  known  you,  I  say  something  or 
other  to  the  heathen  gods  at  night  about  making  you 
safe  and  sleepy." 

"The  heathen  gods?" 

"Well,  not  precisely.  Grannie's  unknown  God,  I 
guess  it  is.  Unknown  to  me!" 

"  Why  do  you  say  we  must  brush  our  hair  ?  " 

He  laughed  a  little,  yet  soberly. 

"  I  read  it  in  a  novel,  the  other  day.  There  were  two 
young  women  talking  together  while  they  brushed  their 
hair.  Then  I  thought  of  yours  and  how  it  must  hang 
down  your  back  like  a  golden  fleece." 

"That's  in  Shakespeare." 

"  It 's  in  me,  too.    A  golden  mane,  then." 

"  Do  you  like  novels  ?  "  Suddenly  she  had  back  her 
absorbing  curiosity  over  him. 

229 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Not  much.   I  have  n't  read  many." 

"Why?" 

"It's  best  not.  They  make  me  discontented.  Seed 
catalogues  are  better." 

"But  you  are  reading  them  now!" 

"  That 's  because  you  have  come." 

"What's  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"  For  the  manners  and  customs.  I  want  to  know  how 
young  women  behave." 

"You  know  how  Electra  behaves." 

"Electra  behaves  like  a  Puritan's  god.  If  an  early 
colonist  had  hewn  him  a  deity  out  of  stone,  it  would 
be  like  Electra." 

"Poor  Electra!" 

"  Yes.    You  're  far  happier,  all  fire  and  frost." 

"But  why  do  you  read  novels  to  find  out  about  me? 
Why  don't  you  observe  me  ?  " 

"  Because  I  don't  see  you  in  the  light." 

"But  you  will." 

"Never!" 

"Never,  playmate?  You  hurt  my  feelings.  What  if 
we  should  meet  face  to  face  in  the  lily  field  at  twelve 
o'clock  to-morrow?" 

He  answered  sternly,  and  she  believed  him. 

"I  should  never  speak  to  you  again.  You  must  keep 
faith  with  me,  or  we  shall  both  be  sorry." 

"  Why,  of  course ! "  Rose  said  it  gently,  as  if  she  won 
dered  at  him.  "  Of  course  I  shall  keep  faith  with  you." 

She  heard  him  rising  from  his  place. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "you  must  go  home." 

"  Why  must  I  ?  The  little  side  door  is  never  locked." 
230 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"No,  but  you  have  been  through  a  good  deal.  We 
must  take  care  of  you." 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  all  the  strength  in  the  world.  I  could 
waste  it  and  waste  it,  and  then  have  enough  to  waste 
again." 

"  It  is  n't  altogether  strength.  It 's  fire  —  the  fire 
of  youth.  Bank  it  up  and  let  it  smoulder,  or  it  will  burn 
you  up." 

"How  are  you  so  wise,  playmate?  You  are  as  wise 
as  dear  grannie." 

He  stretched  up  his  hands  in  the  darkness.  The  face 
he  lifted  to  the  shrouded  heavens  only  the  unseen  citi 
zens  of  the  night  could  see,  the  beneficent  powers  that 
nurse  and  foster. 

"It  has  been  my  study,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  awe, 
as  if  he  had  not  before  thought  how  strange  it  is  never 
to  squander.  "All  these  years  I  have  done  nothing 
but  think  of  my  body,  how  to  build  up  here,  how  to  hus 
band  there.  So  much  exercise,  so  much  sleep,  so  much 
turning  away  from  what  burns  up  and  tears.  Well,  I 
have  done  it.  I  have  made  myself  into  something  as 
solid  as  the  ground,  as  enduring  as  the  rocks." 

"Has  it  been  —  easy?"  she  ventured.  "Have  you 
liked  to  do  it  ?  " 

"No,  I  have  not  liked  to  do  it."  Afterwards,  in  her 
own  room,  she  thought  of  that  question  and  understood 
the  answer  better.  "I  have  never  lavished  anything," 
he  said.  "As  soon  as  I  saw  what  grannie  was  about, 
trying  to  give  me  a  body  to  live  in,  I  began  to  help  her. 
We  have  done  it.  Sometimes  I  think  she  did  it  sitting 
there  in  her  chair  and  praying  to  her  God.  I  have  n't 

231 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

done  any  spending.  It  has  been  all  saving.  But  when 
the  time  comes,  I  shall  spend  it  all  at  once." 

She  felt  very  far  away  from  him. 

"How,  playmate?"  she  asked  timidly. 

He  roused  himself.  "  Never  mind,"  he  said.  "  That 's 
not  for  us  to  think  about  to-night.  Now  run  home, 
child,  and  go  to  bed." 

"  But  we  have  n't  decided  about  me.  What  must 
I  do?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment  and  then  he  said,  — 

"  A  long  time  ago,  grannie  told  me  what  to  do.  She 
said,  '  Do  the  thing  you  think  God  wishes  you  to 
do.' " 

"  But  I  don't  know  anything  about  God." 

"  Nor  I,  playmate.  But  I  think  very  often  about  what 
grannie  said." 

"Have  you  tried  to  do  it?" 

"  I  have  kept  it  in  my  mind." 

It  was  her  turn  to  brood  in  silence.  Then  she  said 
to  him,  — 

"  It  does  n't  seem  to  mean  anything  to  you,  —  that 
thing  —  I  told  you." 

"  Everything  you  tell  me  means  more  than  anything 
else  in  the  world." 

"But  about  Tom  Fulton.  I  was  not  married  to  him. 
I  lied  about  it.  It  is  n't  possible  that  I  seem  —  the  same 
—  to  you." 

"You  would  always  seem  the  same  to  me,"  he  an 
swered,  —  and  she  found  herself  smiling  at  the  beauty 
of  his  voice.  "How  could  you  be  different?  These 
things  are  just  things  that  happen  to  you.  Should  I 

232 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

like  you  less  if  you  were  caught  in  the  rain,  or  got  your 
pretty  dress  muddy?" 

"  How  do  you  know  it  is  a  pretty  dress  ?  "  she  asked 
irrepressibly. 

"  Because  it 's  your  dress.  Run  home,  now,  and  brush 
your  hair." 

She  went  at  once,  and,  in  spite  of  her  doubts,  light- 
heartedly.  He  made  her  feel,  as  the  night  did,  that  here 
in  this  present  life,  as  in  the  outer  universe,  are  great 
spaces  still  unexplored.  Everything  had  possibilities. 
Sprinkle  new  pollen  on  a  flower  and  its  fruit  would 
take  on  other  forms.  Stretch  out  a  hand  and  you  might 
be  led  into  unguessed  delights,  even  after  you  were 
dulled  with  pain.  Sleeping  in  the  air,  even,  were  forces 
to  nourish  and  revive,  dormant  only  because  we  do  not 
call  upon  them.  She  smiled  into  the  night,  and  her  heart 
called  believingly. 


XIX 

MADAM  FULTON  sat  on  the  veranda,  in  the 
shade  of  the  vines.  It  was  rather  early  in  the 
morning,  and  Electra  was  about  her  methodical  tasks. 
Billy  Stark  sat  reading  the  paper,  but  nevertheless  not 
failing,  from  time  to  time,  to  look  up  and  give  his  old 
friend  a  smile.  Madam  Fulton  could  not  answer  it. 
She  felt  estranged  in  a  world  where  she  had  failed  to 
learn  the  values. 

"Billy,"  she  said  at  length,  "do  you  think  she  is 
right?" 

"Who?" 

"  Electra.  She  says  the  money  I  got  out  of  that  pesky 
book  is  tainted  money.  Is  it  ?  " 

Billy  folded  his  paper  and  hung  it  over  the  veranda 
rail.  His  face  began  to  pucker  into  a  smile,  but,  gazing 
at  Madam  Fulton,  it  became  apparent  to  him  that  she 
was  really  troubled.  She  even  looked  as  if  she  had  not 
slept.  Her  faint  pinkness  was  overlaid  by  a  jaded  ivory. 
Her  eyes  interrogated  him  with  a  forlorn  pleading.  All 
his  chivalry  rose  in  arms. 

"Hang  the  book,  Florrie!"  he  said.  "Forget  it. 
You've  had  your  fling  with  it.  You  wanted  fun  and 
you  got  it.  Stop  thinking  about  it." 

"  But,"  she  persisted,  "  is  it  really  true  ?  Have  I  done 
a  shocking  thing,  and  is  it  monstrous  to  use  the  money  ? " 

"You've  been  exceedingly  naughty,"  said  Billy.  He 
eyed  her  with  anxiety.  "  You  ought  to  have  your  hands 

234 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

slapped,  of  course.  Electra  's  done  it,  so  far  as  I  can 
see.  So  now  let 's  get  over  crying  and  go  out  and  jump 
rope." 

"  It  is  n't  so  much  the  book  nor  the  money  nor  Elec 
tra.  It's  because  I  can't  help  wondering  whether  I'm 
a  moral  idiot.  Do  you  think  I  am,  Billy?" 

"I  think  you're  the  gamest  old  girl  that  ever  was, 
if  you  want  to  know.  Let  me  have  the  horse  put  into 
the  phaeton,  Florrie,  and  we'll  go  out  and  jog  awhile." 

But  she  was  musing.  Suddenly  he  saw  how  old  she 
looked. 

"It's  always  been  so,  Billy.  I  never  was  able  to  see 
things  as  other  people  saw  them.  These  rules  they 
make  such  a  pother  about  never  seemed  so  vital  to  me. 
It 's  all  a  part  of  life,  seems  to  me.  Go  ahead  and  live, 
that's  what  we're  in  for.  Growing  things  just  grow, 
don't  they?  They  don't  stop  and  take  photographs  of 
themselves  on  the  twenty-third  day  of  every  month. 
Now,  do  they  ?  " 

"Florrie,"  said  her  old  friend,  still  watching  her, 
"  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  do.  You  just  run  away  with  me 
and  come  to  London.  We've  got  fifteen  good  years 
before  us  yet,  if  we  take  'em  soberly." 

She  seemed  to  be  considering.    Her  face  lighted. 

"I  could  almost  do  it,"  she  owned.  "Electra's  hav 
ing  me  here  helps  out  a  lot,  but  I  could  almost  do  it  — 
on  my  polluted  gains." 

Billy  Stark  looked  into  the  distance.  In  his  earlier 
years  he  had  loved  to  ride  and  take  his  fences  well, 
even  when  they  loomed  too  high.  He  could  not  re 
member  many  great  challenges  in  life;  but  what  he 

235 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

had  recognized,  he  had  not  refused.  Everything  he  had 
met  like  an  honest  gentleman. 

"  Florrie,"  he  said,  "  I  shan't  want  to  leave  you  here 
in  Electra's  clutches.  You  come  —  and  marry  me." 

She  laughed  a  little.  It  was  sadly  done,  but  the  pink 
came  back  into  her  cheeks. 

"As  true  as  I  am  a  living  sinner,  Billy,"  she  said, 
"I'd  do  it,  if  I  were  half  sure  how  we  were  coming 
out." 

"  Coming  out  ?  " 

"Yes.  If  I  thought  I  should  be  pretty  vigorous  up 
to  the  end,  and  then  die  in  my  chair,  like  a  lady.  Yes, 
I  'd  do  it,  and  thank  ye,  too.  But  a  million  things  might 
happen  to  me.  I  might  be  palsied  and  helpless  on  your 
hands,  head  nodding,  deaf  as  a  post  —  damn,  Billy' 
I  could  swear." 

"  I  might  give  out  myself,"  he  said  generously.  "  You 
might  be  the  one  to  tote  the  burden." 

The  old  lady  laughed  again. 

"The  amount  of  it  is,  Billy,  we're  afraid.  Own  up. 
Now  are  n't  we  ?  " 

Billy  thought  it  over. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  said  contentiously, 
"I'm  not  prepared  to  say  I'm  afraid.  Nor  you  either, 
Florrie.  Come  on,  old  girl.  Chance  it." 

"  I  '11  think  it  over,"  said  Madam  Fulton.  The  bright 
ness  had  come  back  to  her  eye.  So  much  was  gained, 
at  any  rate,  Billy  told  himself.  "  There 's  that  handsome 
girl  coming,  Tom's  widow.  — Electra!" 

Electra's  scales  were  beginning,  with  a  serious  em 
phasis. 

236 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  love  to  see  them  together,"  Madam  Fulton  said. 
"  She  makes  Electra  mad  as  hops." 

Rose  was  coming  very  fast.  She  had  the  walk  of 
women  well  trained,  for  the  stage  perhaps,  the  spring 
and  rhythm  of  art  superadded  to  nature's  willingness. 
She  wore  no  hat,  and  the  sun  made  her  bright  hair 
brighter  and  brought  out  the  tragic  meaning  in  her  face. 
She  had  been  thinking  in  the  night,  and  this  morning 
forbade  herself  to  falter.  All  through  her  fluctuating 
moods  there  had  been  a  division  of  joy  and  dread. 
The  perplexing  questions  of  her  past  lay  heavily  upon 
her ;  but  when  she  thought  of  Osmond,  she  was  light 
as  air.  He  made  everything  easy,  his  simplicity,  his  im 
plied  truth.  She  felt  a  great  loyalty  to  what  seemed 
good  to  him.  Her  conscious  life  throughout  the  night 
and  morning  became  a  reaching  out  of  hands  to  him 
in  the  passionate  asseveration  that  she  would  be 
true. 

Electra  came,  in  answer  to  Madam  Fulton's  call. 
She,  too,  was  grave,  but  with  a  hint  of  expectation  on 
her  face.  She  had  been  looking  for  MacLeod.  Since 
their  meeting,  she  had  done  nothing  but  wait  for  him 
again.  Rose  was  running  up  the  steps.  She  glanced 
from  one  to  another  of  them  with  a  recognizing  swift 
ness,  and  when  Billy  Stark  rose  and  placed  a  chair  for 
her,  she  thanked  him  with  a  word,  and  took  her  place 
behind  it,  her  hands  upon  it,  so  that  she  faced  them  all. 
There  was  a  momentary  hush.  Madam  Fulton  put  up 
her  eyeglasses  and  gazed  at  her  curiously,  as  if  she 
were  a  species  of  tableau  arranged  for  notice.  Billy 
Stark  felt  uneasily  as  if  this  were  one  of  the  occasions 

237 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

for  him  to  take  himself  away.   Rose  spoke  rapidly,  in 
her  beautifully  modulated  voice,  but  without  emotion. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something.   I  was  not  his  wife." 

Electra  was  the  one  to  show  dramatic  feeling.  She 
threw  her  hands  up  slightly. 

"I  knew  it."  Her  lips  formed  the  words.  Her  tri 
umphant  glance  went  from  one  to  another,  saying,  "  I 
told  you  so." 

Rose  stood  there  with  perfect  self-possession,  very 
white  now  and  with  the  chilled  look  that  accompanies 
difficult  resolution.  She  glanced  at  Madam  Fulton, 
and  the  old  lady  met  her  gaze  eagerly  with  an  unbe 
lieving  query. 

"  For  heaven's  sake ! "  she  ejaculated,  "  Electra,  why 
don't  you  speak  ?  " 

"I  lived  with  Tom  Fulton  as  his  wife,"  said  Rose, 
in  the  same  moving  voice.  She  might  have  been  en 
gaged  in  the  rehearsal  of  a  difficult  part.  No  one  look 
ing  at  her  could  have  said  whether  she  duly  weighed 
what  she  was  announcing.  "I  called  myself  his  wife 
because  I  thought  I  had  a  right  to.  Other  people  would 
have  called  me  a  disgraced  woman." 

Billy  Stark  now,  without  waiting  to  find  the  step, 
walked  off  the  edge  of  the  veranda  and  was  presently 
to  be  seen,  if  any  one  had  had  eyes  for  him,  lighting 
a  cigar  in  the  peaceful  garden.  Madam  Fulton  had 
spoken  on  the  heels  of  these  last  words.  She  brightened 
into  the  most  cordial  animation. 

"This  is  the  most  extraordinary  story  I  ever  heard 
in  my  life,"  she  commented,  with  relish.  "Sit  down, 
my  dear,  and  tell  us  all  about  it." 

238 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"There  is  nothing  more  to  tell,"  said  Rose.  Her 
eyes  traveled  to  Electra's  face,  and  stayed  there,  though 
the  unfriendly  triumph  of  it  shook  her  resolution.  "  I 
had  to  say  this  because  I  must  say,  too,  that  I  do  not 
want  money  and  I  will  not  take  it.  I  do  not  want  to  be 
known  as  Tom  Fulton's  wife.  I  was  not  his  wife." 

"You  wanted  it  a  week  ago,"  said  Electra  involun 
tarily.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  speak,  not  to 
be  severe,  not  to  be  anything  that  would  destroy  the 
picture  Markham  MacLeod  must  have  of  her  in  his 
own  mind ;  but  the  words  escaped  her. 

"That  was  before — "  Rose  stopped.  She  had  al 
most  said  it  was  before  her  father  came,  but  it  was  borne 
floodingly  in  upon  her  that  this  was  not  alone  the  rea 
son.  It  was  before  she  had  felt  this  great  allegiance  to 
Osmond  Grant. 

"Your  father  confirms  you,"  said  Electra,  yielding 
to  her  overpowering  curiosity.  "  He  says  you  were  my 
brother's  wife." 

"My  father"—  Rose  held  her  head  higher  — "I 
have  nothing  to  do  with  that,"  she  concluded.  "  It  is  the 
truth  that  I  was  never  married." 

Electra  turned  away  and  went  into  the  house.  They 
heard  her  step  in  the  neighboring  room.  She  had  paused 
there  by  the  piano,  considering,  in  her  desire  to  be  mis 
tress  of  herself,  whether  she  should  not  go  on  with  her 
music  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  But  the  thought 
of  Rose  and  her  mastery  of  the  keys  forbade  that,  as 
display,  and  she  turned  away  and  went  upstairs,  with 
great  dignity,  though  there  was  no  one  by  to  consider 
the  fashion  of  it.  There  she  sat  down  by  the  window, 

239 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

to  watch  for  Markham  MacLeod.  Madam  Fulton  had 
been  regarding  Rose  with  an  exceedingly  friendly  smile . 
The  girl  looked  tired,  though  her  muscles  had  relaxed 
with  Electra's  going. 

"Come  here,  my  dear,  and  sit  down,"  said  the  old 
lady,  indicating  a  chair.  Rose  shook  her  head.  Then, 
as  she  found  herself  trembling,  she  did  sit  down,  and 
Madam  Fulton  laid  a  hand  upon  her  knee.  "You  are 
a  very  interesting  child,"  she  said,  with  an  approving 
emphasis.  "Now  what  in  the  world  made  you  fall  in 
love  with  Tom  Fulton  ?  Did  he  seem  very  nice  to  you  ?  " 

"I  can't  talk  about  him,"  said  Rose.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if  now  his  shadow  might  be  lifted  from  her.  "  It 
is  over.  He  is  dead." 

"  Of  course  he 's  dead.  It  was  the  best  thing  he  could 
do.  Well,  well,  my  dear!  What  made  you  come  over 
here  and  play  this  little  comedy  for  us  ?  " 

The  girl's  eyes  had  filled  with  tears. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  she  answered.  It  was  easy  to  de 
fend  her  cause  to  Osmond ;  not  to  this  eager  creature 
who  wanted  to  read  her  like  a  curious  book.  But 
Madam  Fulton  was  almost  whispering.  She  looked  as 
if  she  had  something  of  the  utmost  importance  to  com 
municate. 

"I  ask  you,  my  dear,  because  I  am  thoroughly  bad 
myself,  and  it's  beyond  me  to  understand  why  it's  so 
important  whether  we  are  bad  or  good.  And  I  thought 
maybe  if  you  could  tell  me  —  did  you  know  you  were 
bad  before  you  came  and  Electra  found  you  out?" 

Rose  was  looking  kindly  into  the  vivid  face. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  did  n't  think  I  was  bad." 
240 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"That's  it!"  cried  the  old  lady,  in  high  triumph. 
"We  don't  any  of  us  know  it  till  they  find  us  out.  My 
dear,  it 's  the  most  awful  system  —  now,  is  n't  it  ?  You 
go  on  as  innocent  as  you  please,  and  suddenly  they  tell 
you  you're  a  criminal.  It's  as  if  you  made  up  your 
mouth  to  whistle,  walking  along  the  road,  and  somebody 
pounces  on  you  and  tells  you  whistling 's  against  the  law 
and  claps  you  into  jail." 

Rose  was  smiling  at  her  now,  forgetful,  for  the 
moment,  of  her  own  coil,  Madam  Fulton  seemed  to  her 
so  pathetically  young  and  innocent  of  everything  save 
untamed  desires. 

"What  under  heavens  does  it  mean?"  Madam 
Fulton  was  insisting,  with  the  greatest  irritation. 

"I  must  go  now,"  said  Rose.    "I  had  to  tell  you." 

Madam  Fulton  kept  the  detaining  hand  upon  her 
knee. 

"  But  where  are  you  going  ?  "  she  insisted.  "  Back  to 
France  ? " 

"No,  I  shall  stay  in  America.   I  shall  sing." 

"  Do  you  think  anybody  '11  want  to  hear  you  ?  " 

"They'll  love  to  hear  me!" 

Madam  Fulton  eyed  her  smilingly. 

"  You  're  a  brazen  hussy,"  she  said.  "  But  of  all  things, 
why  did  you  come  here  with  your  little  comedy  in  your 
hand,  if  you  did  n't  mean  to  play  it  out  ?  " 

"  I  did  mean  to  play  it,"  said  Rose,  laying  her  head 
back  against  the  high  rail  of  the  chair.  She  closed  her 
eyes,  for  again  she  felt  the  tears  coming.  "But  I  —  got 
sick  of  it." 

Madam  Fulton  nodded  confirmingly. 
241 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  That 's  precisely  it,"  she  agreed.  "  We  do  get  sick 
of  it.  We  get  sick  of  conduct,  good  or  bad.  They  don't, 
the  good  ones.  They  go  on  clambering,  one  step  after 
another,  up  that  pyramid,  and  peering  over  the  edge 
to  see  us  playing  in  the  sand,  and  occasionally,  if  they 
can  get  a  brick,  they  heave  it  at  us." 

"Who  are  the  good  ones?"  Rose  asked  languidly. 
"Electra?" 

"Electra?  She's  neither  hot  nor  cold.  But  she's 
of  the  kind  that  made  the  system  in  the  first  place." 

"  Grannie  is  good,"  said  Rose  absently. 

"Bessie  Grant?  Yes,  she's  God's  anointed,  if  there 
is  a  God.  My  dear,  I  love  to  talk  with  you,  almost  as 
much  as  with  Billy  Stark.  You  come  and  stay  with  me 
next  winter." 

Rose  smiled. 

"  There 's  Electra,"  she  reminded  her. 

"Bless  you,  Electra  and  I  don't  live  together!  I 
only  visit  her  here  half  the  year,  to  save  my  pocket- 
book.  That's  another  proof  of  my  general  unworthi- 
ness.  I  flout  her  and  mad  her  all  the  time.  She  would  n't 
do  that  to  me,  but  she  'd  drive  me  to  drink  trying  not  to. 
No,  I  Ve  got  a  little  apartment  in  town,  like  a  hollow 
tree,  and  I  crawl  into  it  in  the  winter.  You  come,  too, 
and  I  '11  introduce  you  to  all  the  people  I  know,  and  you 
can  make  'em  listen  while  you  sing." 

Rose  was  looking  at  her  in  a  moved  warmth  and 
wonder. 

"How  kind  you  are!"  she  breathed. 

"  No !  no !  Only  when  you  said  you  were  a  liar,  and 
worse,  I  suddenly  felt  the  most  extraordinary  interest 

242 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

in  you.  I  feel  as  if  you  might  speak  my  language.  I 
don't  know  that  I  want  to  do  anything  bad,  but  I  don't 
want  to  be  kept  so  nervous  trying  to  decide  whether 
things  are  bad  or  not.  You  come,  my  dear  —  unless  I 
marry  Billy  Stark.  I  may  do  that.  I  must,  if  it  will 
plague  Electra." 

Rose  gave  her  a  quick  glance,  at  once  withdrawn, 
and  while  she  allowed  the  last  possibility  to  sink  into 
the  depths  of  her  mind,  Madam  Fulton  was  interro 
gating  her  again. 

"You  don't  think  it  is  possible,"  she  was  urging,  with 
the  insistence  of  one  who  sees  incredible  good  fortune, 
"  you  don't  suppose  you  have  n't  any  moral  sense  ?  " 

She  seemed  to  hang  upon  the  answer.  Rose,  in  spite 
of  herself  and  the  unhappy  moment,  laughed. 

"I  hoped  I  had,"  she  rejoined,  "but  I  don't  believe 
I  ever  thought  much  about  it." 

Madam  Fulton  nodded  quite  gayly. 

"  That 's  it ! "  she  cried.  "  Don't  you  see  you  have  n't  ? 
When  they  have  it,  they're  always  thinking  about  it. 
It's  like  a  cinder  in  the  eye.  My  dear,  you're  just  as 
bad  as  I  am,  and  I  thank  my  stars  I've  met  you." 

But  all  this  touch  and  go  was  a  strange,  poor  sequel 
to  the  task  of  that  confession.  It  had  all  turned  out 
very  small  beer  indeed,  except  so  far  as  Electra  was  con 
cerned.  Electra,  Rose  was  convinced,  in  a  moment  of 
sadly  mirthful  fancy,  was  upstairs  setting  her  judg 
ments  in  order  and  decorously  glad  to  have  been  proven 
right. 

"I'll  go  now,"  she  said,  rising.  She  felt  very  tired 
with  it  all.  "I've  told  you." 

243 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"But  come  again,  my  dear,"  the  old  lady  insisted. 
"Be  sure  you  come  again.  You  are  so  understanding, 
I  shall  miss  you  sadly.  Come  every  day." 

Rose  went  down  the  garden  path  and  noted,  with 
some  irony,  that  Billy  Stark,  still  smoking,  turned  away 
into  the  grape  arbor.  It  looked  like  the  shyness  of  de 
corum.  She  could  hardly  know  that  Billy  felt  unable 
to  bear  any  more  revelations  from  womenfolk.  And 
now  she  said  to  herself,  "I  shall  have  to  tell  grannie 
and  I  shall  have  to  tell  Peter." 

Opportunity  was  easy,  for  Peter  was  at  that  moment 
coming  whistling  along  the  road  on  the  way  to  Electra's. 
When  she  saw  him,  her  purpose  failed.  He  looked  so 
boyish,  so  free  and  happy -hearted.  How  could  she 
give  him  a  sordid  secret  to  keep,  in  place  of  their 
admiring  comradeship? 

"Where  is  my  father?"  she  asked  him,  when  they 
met  and  Peter  had  pulled  off  his  hat  and  salaamed 
before  her. 

"  Gone  down  to  the  plantation  to  see  Osmond." 

She  took  fright. 

"  To  see  Osmond !  How  does  my  father  know  any 
thing  about  him  ?  How  does  he  dare  —  " 

"  Osmond  sent  for  him,"  said  Peter,  turning  to  walk 
with  her.  He  was  tossing  up  his  stick  and  catching  it, 
in  love  of  the  day.  "  It 's  the  first  human  being  Osmond 
has  expressed  an  interest  in.  But  I  don't  wonder. 
Everybody  wants  to  see  the  chief." 

"Why  should  he  have  sent?"  she  repeated  to  her 
self. 

"I'll  tell  you  something,"  continued  Peter.  "The 
244 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

chief  will  tell  you  when  you  see  him.  He  has  been  sum 
moned.'* 

"My  father?" 

"Yes.   He  is  needed." 

"Where?" 

"He  won't  tell  me.  But  it's  urgent.  It  means  can 
celing  his  engagements  here.  Of  course  there's. but  one 
supposition." 

"Russia?" 

He  nodded. 

"I  wish  I  could  go  with  him,"  he  said  impetuously. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  his  face  was  glowing.  She 
had  seen  that  look  so  many  times  on  other  faces,  that 
wistful  longing  for  the  unnamed  beautiful.  It  was  what 
Markham  MacLeod  was  always  calling  out  in  faces. 
They  might  be  young,  they  might  be  the  faces  of  those 
who  had  suffered  long  experience,  but  always  it  was 
those  who  were  hungry,  either  with  the  hunger  of  youth 
or  the  delay  of  hope,  the  cruelty  of  time.  He  seemed 
to  be  the  great  necromancer,  the  great  promiser.  Could 
such  promises  come  to  naught? 

"To  leave  here?"  she  suggested.  "To  leave—" 
she  hesitated. 

"  I  should  n't  leave  Electra,"  said  Peter  simply. 
"  When  I  met  you,  I  was  going  to  ask  her  to  go  with 
me." 

She  stopped  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  Go,"  she  said.  "  Go  to  her  and  ask  her.  I  wish  you 
luck,  Peter  —  dear  Peter ! " 

He  did  not  look  altogether  a  happy  lover,  as  he  stood 
holding  her  hand.  He  gazed  at  her,  she  thought,  sadly, 

245 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

as  if  he  dreamed  of  things  that  could  not  be.  What  was 
it  in  youth  that  made  everything  into  twilight,  even  with 
the  drum  and  fife  calling  to  wars  and  victories?  She 
was  impatient  with  it,  with  deceiving  life  itself  that 
promised  and  then  lied.  She  took  her  hand  away. 

"  Good-by,  Peter,"  she  said,  sadly  now  in  her  turn, 
because  it  occurred  to  her  that  after  Peter  should  have 
seen  Electra,  he  would  never  again  be  her  own  good 
comrade.  He  would  know.  She  left  him  standing  there 
looking  after  her,  and  then,  when  he  found  she  would 
not  loiter,  he  went  on  his  way.  But  Peter  did  not 
toss  his  stick  up  now.  He  walked  slowly,  and  thought 
of  what  he  meant  to  do. 

They  seemed  to  be  walking  with  him,  one  on  each 
side,  Rose  and  Electra.  It  was  chiefly  the  thought  of 
Electra,  as  it  had  moulded  him  from  year  to  year  while 
he  had  been  absent  from  her;  but  it  was  the  delicate 
presence  of  the  other  woman,  so  wonderful  by  nature 
and  so  equipped  with  all  the  arts  of  life  that  the  pleasure 
of  her  was  almost  pain.  They  seemed  to  keep  a  hand 
upon  him,  one  through  his  fealty  to  her  and  the  other 
by  compelling  and  many-sided  beauty. 


XX 

ELECTRA,  in  her  excitement,  found  herself  unable 
to  stay  upstairs  at  her  accustomed  tasks.  She 
had  to  know  what  grandmother  thought  of  this  ill-bred 
woman.  But  speeding  down,  she  saw  grandmother  in 
the  garden  path  with  Billy  Stark.  There  they  walked 
intimately  arm-in-arm,  and  grandmother  talked.  There 
was  something  eager  in  the  pose  of  her  head.  Evidently 
what  she  had  heard  quite  pleased  her,  if  only  because 
it  was  some  new  thing.  And  there  was  Peter  at  the  door. 
Instantly  the  light  sprang  renewed  into  Electra's  eyes. 
Peter  would  do  still  better  than  grandmother  to  con 
firm  her  triumph,  though  at  the  moment  even  she 
charged  herself  to  be  lofty  in  her  judgments  and  tem 
perate  in  expressing  them.  Peter  did  not  look  at  all 
like  one  who  had  himself  heard  unlovely  news.  His 
face  glowed.  There  were  points  of  light  in  his  dark 
eyes.  Rose  had  left  them  there,  and  Electra,  with  the 
sick  certainty  of  the  jealous,  knew  it.  They  went  silently 
into  the  library,  Peter  holding,  as  well  as  he  might, 
the  lax  hand  hanging  at  her  side.  In  the  morning  light 
of  the  room  they  faced  each  other,  and  she  asked  her 
question,  the  one  that,  unbidden,  came  leaping  to  her 
lips. 

"Did  you  meet  her?" 

He  knew  whom  she  meant,  for  his  thought,  too,  was 
full  of  her. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  then  swept  even  Rose  aside  as 
247 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

deflecting  him  from  his  purpose.   "  Electra,   I  have  de 
cided  to  go  back  to  France." 

Immediately  she  thought  she  saw  why.  Rose  was 
going  and  he  had  to  follow. 

"What  did  she  tell  you?"  she  cried  sharply.  The 
pang  that  came  astonished  her,  it  was  so  savage.  Even 
in  the  haste  of  the  moment,  she  had  time  for  a  passing 
surprise  that  she  could  be  so  moved  by  Peter.  He  was 
looking  at  her  with  innocent  perplexity. 

"  Rose  ? "  he  said.  "  Nothing.  I  told  her  I  was  coming 
here  and  she  —  "  He  paused,  for  he  was  on  the  point 
of  adding,  "She  sent  me."  Peter  could  see  how  ill- 
judged  that  would  be. 

Electra,  her  proud  glance  on  him,  was  considering, 
balancing  probabilities.  With  his  artist's  eye  he  saw 
how  handsome  she  was,  how  like,  in  the  outer  woman, 
to  his  imperial  lady.  Such  spirit  in  her  could  only,  it 
seemed,  be  spent  for  noble  ends. 

"Has  she  told  you?"  asked  Electra,  and  there  was 
something,  he  saw,  beyond  what  he  suspected.  Her 
voice  rang  out  against  her  will :  "  No,  she  has  n't.  She 
means,  for  some  reason,  not  to  tell  you.  But  she  has 
had  to  tell  me." 

Peter  was  staring  at  her. 

"  Has  something  happened  to  her  ?  "  he  asked  quickly. 
"  I  must  know." 

That  mysterious  rage  she  was  so  unwilling  to  recog 
nize  got  possession  of  her  again. 

"  It  means  a  great  deal  to  you,"  she  breathed. 

"Of  course  it  does,"  said  Peter  honestly.  "Don't 
keep  me  dangling,  Electra." 

248 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Electra's  mouth  seemed  to  harden  before  his  eyes. 
She  looked  like  some  noble  and  beautiful  image  of 
justice  or  a  kindred  virtue. 

"  She  thinks  I  shall  not  tell  you,"  she  declared.  "  But 
I  shall.  It  is  no  more  right  for  you  to  be  deceived  than 
it  was  right  for  me.  I  shall  tell  you." 

"  Don't  tell  me  anything  she  would  n't  wish,"  said 
Peter  earnestly.  He  began  to  see  the  need  of  holding 
down  the  flaming  spirit  in  her,  lest  it  consume  too  much. 
"  If  there  is  anything  she  wants  me  to  know,  she  will 
tell  me." 

"  My  instinct  was  right,"  said  Electra,  now  with 
equal  steadiness.  "She  was  not  his  wife.  Tom  never 
married  her." 

Peter  was  tired  of  that  issue.  His  controlled  manner 
showed  it. 

"I  know  what  you  think  about  that,  Electra,"  he 
said.  "You  see  we  don't  agree.  We  mustn't  talk 
about  it." 

Electra  answered  him  with  a  gracious  certainty. 

"  That  was  what  she  told  me,  Peter.  She  told  grand 
mother,  too.  For  some  reason  she  has  abandoned  her 
deception.  She  has  a  reason  for  ending  it.  That  was 
what  she  said.  Tom  never  married  her." 

Peter's  face  was  blazing,  the  indignant  blood  in  it, 
the  light  darting  from  his  eyes.  He  straightened.  His 
hands  clenched.  His  voice  was  thick  with  anger. 

"  Tom  never  married  her  ?  " 

"  That  was  what  she  told  us." 

"  The  damned  scoundrel ! " 

Electra  had  been  regarding  him  in  serene  certainty 
249 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

of  her  own  position  and  her  ability  to  hold  it.  But 
human  nature  flashed  out  in  her,  the  loyalty  of  blood. 

"Are  you  speaking  of  my  brother?"  she  demanded. 

"I  am  speaking  of  your  precious  brother.  And  I 
might  have  known  it."  Ire,  gathering  in  him,  suffused 
his  face  anew.  "  I  might  have  known  Tom  Fulton  would 
do  the  dastardly  trick  in  any  given  situation.  Of  course 
he  never  married  her." 

"You  don't  seem  to  think  of  her,"  she  reminded 
him,  under  her  breath. 

"Not  think  of  her!  What  else  am  I  thinking  of? 
Poor  child !  poor  child ! " 

Electra  was  always  having  to  feel  alone  in  the  world. 
Art  left  her  desolate  when  other  people  sang  and  painted 
and  she  could  only  praise.  Love  and  the  fierce  loyalty 
she  coveted  were  always  failing  her  and  lavishing  them 
selves  elsewhere.  She  had  one  momentary  impulse  to 
speak  for  herself. 

"  Do  you  wonder  now,"  she  said,  "  that  I  would  n't 
accept  her?" 

"Not  accept  her,  when  she  had  been  hurt?  Good 
God,  Electra!  how  monstrous  it  is.  You,  a  delicate 
woman,  fully  believed  he  had  wronged  another  woman 
as  lovely  as  yourself,  and  yet  the  only  impression  it 
made  on  you  was  that  you  could  not  accept  her." 

Electra  resisted  the  impulse  to  turn  away  or  put  her 
hands  to  her  face;  the  tears  were  coming.  She  held 
herself  rigid  for  a  moment,  choking  down  the  shud 
dering  of  her  nerves,  lest  her  lips  quiver  and  betray 
her. 

"  I  suppose,"  —  the  words  were  almost  inaudible, 
250 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

yet  he  heard  them,  —  "I  suppose  that  is  because  you 
have  lived  so  long  in  France." 

"  What,  Electra  ?  "  He  spoke  absently,  his  mind  with 
Rose. 

"  These  things  have  ceased  to  mean  anything  to  you. 
It  is  not  a  moral  question.  You  see  the  woman  is  pretty 
and  you  —  " 

"No,  no!  She  is  beautiful,  but  that's  not  it.  I  can't 
theorize  about  it,  Electra,  only  the  whole  thing  seems 
to  me  monstrous.  That  he  should  wrong  her!  That  he 
should  be  able  to  make  her  care  about  him  in  the  first 
place  —  a  fellow  like  him  —  just  because  he  was  hand 
some  as  the  devil  and  had  the  tongue  of  angels  —  but 
that  he  should  wrong  her,  that  she  should  come  over 
here  expecting  kindness  — "  It  was  Peter  who  put  a 
hand  before  his  eyes,  not  because  there  were  tears  there, 
but  as  if  to  shut  her  out  from  a  knowledge  of  his  too 
candid  self.  But  in  an  instant  he  was  looking  at  her 
again,  not  in  anger,  but  sorrowfully. 

"  Is  n't  it  strange  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  almost  to  herself. 

"What,  Electra?" 

"  Strange  to  think  what  power  a  woman  has  —  a 
woman  of  that  stamp." 

"  Don't,  Electra.  You  must  n't  classify  her.  You 
can't." 

She  was  considering  it  with  a  real  curiosity. 

"You  don't  blame  her  at  all,"  she  said.  "You  know 
Tom  did  wrong.  You  don't  think  she  did." 

"Electra,"  he  said  gently,  "we  can't  go  back  to  that. 
It's  over  and  done  with.  Besides,  it  is  between  those 
two.  It  is  n't  our  business." 

251 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"You  could  blame  Tom!"  She  clung  to  that.  He 
saw  she  would  not  release  her  hold. 

"Electra!"  He  put  out  his  hands  and  took  her 
unwilling  ones.  Then  he  gazed  at  her  sweetly  and 
seriously ;  and  when  Peter  was  in  gentle  earnest,  he  did 
look  very  good.  "  Electra,  can't  you  see  what  she  is  ?  " 

His  appealingness  had  for  the  instant  soothed  that 
angry  devil  in  her.  She  wrenched  her  hands  free,  with 
the  one  hoarse  cry  instinct  with  mental  pain,  — 

"  You  are  in  love  with  her ! " 

Peter  stepped  back  a  pace.  His  face  paled.  He  could 
not  answer.  Electra  felt  the  rush  of  an  emotion  stronger 
than  herself.  It  swept  her  on,  her  poise  forgotten,  her 
rules  of  life  snapping  all  about  her. 

"  I  have  always  known  it,  from  the  first  day  you  spoke 
of  her.  She  has  bewitched  you.  Perhaps  this  is  what 
she  really  came  for  —  to  separate  us.  Well,  she  has 
done  it." 

Something  seemed  demanded  of  him,  and  he  could 
only  answer  in  her  own  words,  — 

"Has  she  done  it?" 

Her  heat  had  cooled.  Her  soberer  self  had  the  upper 
hand  again,  and  she  spoke  now  like  the  gracious  lady 
called  to  some  dignified  dismissal. 

"I  find,"  she  said,  " I  must  have  intended  to  say  this 
for  days.  We  must  give  up  —  what  we  meant  to  do." 

"  You  must  give  me  up,  Electra  ?  " 

"  I  give  you  up." 

"  I  came  to-day,"  —  Peter's  voice  sounded  very  honest 
in  his  endeavor  to  show  how  well  he  had  meant,  —  "I 
came  to  ask  you  to  go  back  to  France.  We  would  live 

252 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

on  a  little.  We  would  serve  the  Brotherhood  —  the 
chief  says  you  have  joined  already  — "  Electra  bowed 
her  head  slightly,  still  in  a  designed  remoteness. 

"I  shall  go  to  France,"  she  said,  "later.  But  I  shall 
never  marry  you.  That  is  over.  As  you  said  of  some 
thing  else,  it  is  over  and  done  with." 

She  glanced  toward  the  door,  but  he  kept  his  place. 
Peter  was  conscious  that  of  all  the  things  he  ought  to 
feel,  he  could  not  summon  one.  It  did  not  seem  exactly 
the  woman  he  had  loved  who  was  dismissing  him.  This 
was  a  handsome  and  unfriendly  stranger,  and  in  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  surged  a  sweet  new  feeling  that  was 
like  hope  and  pain. 

"  Let  us  not  talk  any  more,"  she  was  saying,  with  that 
air  of  extreme  courtesy  which  still  invited  him  to  go. 

Peter  walked  slowly  to  the  door. 

"I  am  wondering"  —  he  hesitated.  "Why  do  you 
say  that,  Electra?  Why  do  you  tell  me  I  am  in  love 
with  her?" 

He  looked  as  shy  as  a  girl.  It  struck  her  full  in  the 
mind  that  even  in  this  interview  she  had  no  part.  She 
had  refused  a  lover,  and  he  was  going  away  with  his 
thoughts  stirred  by  another  woman. 

"  I  said  so,"  she  repeated  clearly,  "  because  it  is  true. 
You  are  in  love  with  her.  Good-by." 

Peter  turned  to  her  with  one  of  his  quick  movements 
and  held  out  his  hand.  She  did  not  take  it. 

"Won't  you  shake  hands,  Electra?"  he  asked.  "I 
should  think  we  might  be  friends."  Honest  sorrow 
moved  his  voice.  Now,  at  least,  he  was  thinking  of  her 
only. 

253 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

Electra  meant  to  show  no  resentment,  no  pain.  But 
she  had  to  be  true. 

"  I  can't,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "  Good-by." 

And  Peter,  seeing  the  aversion  in  her  face,  not  for 
him,  perhaps,  but  for  the  moment,  got  himself  hastily 
out  of  the  room  and  into  the  summer  road.  And  there, 
before  he  had  walked  three  paces,  Peter  began  to  sing. 
He  sang  softly,  not  at  all  because  melody  was  unfitted 
to  the  day,  but  as  if  what  inspired  it  were  too  intimate 
a  thing  to  be  revealed.  He  looked  above  him,  straight 
ahead,  and  on  every  side. 

The  world  was  beautiful  to  him  at  this  moment,  and 
he  had  a  desire  to  drink  it  up,  to  be  as  young  and  as 
rich  as  Apollo.  He  did  feel  very  rich,  not  only  in  his 
youth,  but  in  the  unnamed  possibilities  trembling  before 
him;  and  Peter  denied  himself  no  pleasure  because  it 
was  inappropriate  to  the  moment.  It  would  have  seemed 
to  him  a  refusal  of  the  good  gifts  of  life  and  an  affront 
ing  of  the  God  who  created  plenty  if,  because  he  had 
lost  Electra,  he  renounced  the  delight  of  a  happiness 
he  really  felt.  By  and  by  he  would  remember  Electra, 
how  dignified  she  was,  how  irreproachable,  in  the  mo 
ments  when  her  virtues  did  not  get  the  bit  between  their 
teeth  and  dash  away  with  her;  but  now,  under  this 
abounding  summer  sun,  with  the  leaves  trembling,  she 
withdrew  into  a  gray  seclusion  like  an  almost  forgotten 
task  —  one  that  had  resolved  itself  into  a  beneficent 
fulfillment  quite  unlike  what  it  had  promised.  Noble 
as  it  was,  he  had  been  excused  from  it,  and  he  felt  bliss 
fully  free.  Something  else  that  swam  before  him  like 
the  gleam  of  a  vision  did  not  look  like  another  task.  It 

254 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

was  more  like  a  quest  for  a  hero's  arming.  It  fitted  his 
dreams,  it  went  hand  in  hand  with  the  visions  he  had 
had  years  ago  about  his  painting,  when  that  was  all 
possibility,  not  work.  This  was  the  worshipful  righting 
of  an  innocent  lady. 

She  was  there  in  view  when  he  got  home,  as  if  she 
had  waited  for  him,  under  a  tree,  trembled  about  by 
the  summer  green,  her  white  dress  flickered  upon  by 
leaves.  She  was  pale;  her  mouth  looked  piteous  to  him, 
and  his  heart  beat  hard  in  championship.  She  half  rose 
from  her  chair,  and  let  her  unread  book  fall  to  the  grass 
beside  her. 

There  were  two  things  Rose  wanted  very  much  to 
know:  whether  Electra  had  shocked  him  out  of  his 
trust  in  her,  and  why  her  father  stayed  so  long  in  that 
visit  to  Osmond  at  the  plantation.  The  last  question 
was  the  great  one,  and  she  asked  it  first. 

"  What  can  my  father  be  saying  to  him  ?  " 

"  Osmond  ?  I  don't  know.  Equal  rights,  labor,  capi 
tal,  God  knows.  Rose,  don't  sit  there.  Please  get 
up!" 

She  obeyed,  wondering,  brushed  out  her  skirt  and 
put  her  hair  straight,  and  then  glanced  at  him. 

"What  for?"  she  asked.  "What  do  you  want  me  to 
do?" 

Peter  looked  to  her  about  eighteen,  perhaps,  nothing 
but  youth  and  gleam  and  gay  good  luck.  She  felt  a 
thousand  years  older  herself,  yet  she  loved  Peter  dearly. 
She  would  do  anything  for  him.  This  she  told  herself 
in  the  moment  of  smoothing  down  her  hair.  His  face 
brimmed  over  with  fun,  with  something  else,  too.  The 

255 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

seriousness  that  dwells  housemate  to  comedy  was  be 
hind. 

"  I  could  n't  say  it  with  you  lying  there  and  looking 
at  me,"  said  Peter.  "  Nobody  ever  made  a  proposal  to 
a  lady  in  a  steamer  chair  unless  he  was  in  another  and 
the  deck  was  level." 

"  Peter,"  she  said  gravely,  "  don't  make  fun." 
Peter  shook  back  the  lock  of  hair  he  encouraged  to 
tumble  into  his  eyes.    It  was  his  small  affectation.    It 
kept  him  at  one  with  his  artistic  brotherhood. 

"I  am  rejected,"  he  said,  and  do  what  he  might,  he 
announced  it  exultingly,  and  not  in  the  least  with  the 
dignity  he  would  have  admired  in  the  lady  who  had  re 
fused  him.  But  at  that  moment  Peter  had  had  enough 
of  dignity  and  the  outer  form  of  things.  He  wanted  to 
be  himself,  light  or  sad,  bad  or  good,  and  speak  the 
truth  as  the  moment  revealed  it  to  him.  "But  I  am 
rejected,"  he  continued,  when  she  looked  at  him  in  a 
quick  reproof,  "turned  down,  jilted,  smashed  into  a 
cocked  hat.  And  I  came  just  as  quick  as  I  could. 
Rose—" 

"  Don't !"  she  warned  him.  "  Don't  say  that,  Peter." 
"  Just  as  quick  as  I  could  get  here  without  running  — 
I  could  n't  run,  there  were  so  many  pretty  things  to 
look  at  —  to  tell  you,  to  beg  of  you  "  —  Peter's  voice 
broke.  He  was  behaving  badly  to  conceal  how  much 
he  was  moved.  "I  came  to  offer  it  to  you,"  he  said 
seriously,  in  a  low  tone.  "  Not  what  was  given  back  to 
me,  but  something  else,  so  much  better  you  could  n't 
speak  of  'em  in  the  same  .day.  When  I  think  of  what 
might  be,  it 's  all  light  and~color  —  and  the  leaves  of 

256 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

the  wood  moving.  It's  a  great  big  dream,  Rose,  and 
you  fit  into  it.  You  fit  into  the  dream."  He  was  in 
toxicated  with  youth  and  life.  She  was  not  sure  whether 
it  was  with  her. 

"I  hope  you  haven't  quarreled,"  she  said  soberly. 
She  wished  she  might  recall  him.  "  But  if  you  have  and 
are  patient  —  " 

Peter  could  not  let  her  go  on.  He  put  out  his  quick, 
clever  hands  in  an  eager  gesture,  as  if  he  pushed  some 
thing  away. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want  to  be  patient!  I  want 
to  be  rash.  I  don't  want  anything  back.  I  want  some 
thing  new  and  beautiful.  I  want  to  tell  you  a  million 
things  in  a  minute  —  chiefly  how  much  I  love  you." 

His  voice  had  deepened.  It  swept  her  on  apace,  in 
spite  of  herself,  because  it  was  like  Osmond's.  For  a 
moment  she  felt  the  kinship  between  them,  the  same 
swift  blood,  the  picturesque  betrayals.  There  was 
something  at  the  heart  of  each  that  was  dear  to  her, 
and  Peter,  for  the  moment,  speaking  in  the  sunshine 
with  her  eyes  upon  him,  was  also  the  voice  out  of  the 
dark.  But  she  had  nevertheless  to  recall  him. 

"  Have  you  really  given  each  other  up  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  in  the  same  glad  acquiescence. 
"  And  what  do  you  think  she  told  me,  the  last  thing  of 
all?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"She  told  me  I  loved  you.  And  I  do,  Rose.  Oh,  I 
do!  I  do!" 

"  But  that  must  n't  part  you.  Think  what  it  is  to  me 
—  to  know  my  coming  here  has  done  it." 

257 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Oh,  you  had  to  come!"  said  Peter  light-heartedly. 
"It  was  preordained.  It's  destiny.  I  was  a  fool  not  to 
see  it  the  first  minute.  She  had  to  tell  me." 

Rose,  in  spite  of  herself,  smiled  a  little.  But  her 
thoughts  settled  gravely  back  upon  her  own  hard  task. 

"Did  she  tell  you" —  She  hesitated,  and  then  asked 
her  question  with  a  simple  directness.  "  Did  she  tell 
you  how  much  mistaken  you  are  in  me  ?  " 

"Please  don't,"  said  Peter.  His  face  flushed.  He 
looked  his  misery. 

"You  see  she  is  the  only  one  who  was  not  mis 
taken  in  me.  Those  of  you  who  believed  in  me  —  well,  I 
must  tell  all  of  you.  Even  grannie,  dear  grannie!  I  am 
afraid  — "  She  stopped  because  she  meant  to  show  no 
emotion;  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  grannie,  in  her 
guarded  life,  must  view  her  harshly.  "I  was  wrong, 
Peter,  ever  to  let  you  mix  yourself  in  this  miserable 
coil.  If  I  could  lie,  well  and  good.  Let  me  do  it  and 
take  the  consequences.  But  I  should  have  known  bet 
ter  than  to  bring  you  into  it." 

Peter  stood  thoughtfully  regarding  her  in  a  very  im 
personal  way,  as  if  he  debated  how  she  could  be  moved. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  at  last,  "how  it  is  possible  to  tell 
you  how  lovely  you  are  to  everybody,  how  perfectly 
splendid,  you  know,  quite  different  from  anybody  else! 
And  when  you  add  to  that  that  you've  been  wronged 
and  —  and  insulted  —  oh  you  Ve  simply  no  conception 
how  it  makes  a  fellow  feel !  Why,  I  adore  you,  that 's  all. 
I  just  adore  you." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  like  a  bluff  comrade  and 
she  put  hers  into  it  as  frankly. 

258 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"You're  a  dear  boy,  Peter,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes 
were  wet. 

He  spoke  perversely,  when  she  had  taken  her  hand 
away :  — 

"That's  all  very  well,  you  know,  but  I'm  not  a  boy 
—  not  all  the  time.  I  love  you  awfully,  Rose,  in  the  real 
way,  the  bang-up  old  style,  Tristan  and  all  that,  you 
know.  I  'm  going  to  keep  on  and  you  '11  have  to  listen." 

"Shall  I,  Peter?"  She  was  still  smiling  wistfully. 
Love,  sweet,  clean,  young  love  looked  very  beautiful  to 
her.  She  wished  she  could  see  it  crowning  some  head, 
not  hers,  some  girl  quite  worthy  of  him.  "Well,  not 
to-day." 

"No,  maybe  not  to-day,"  Peter  agreed  obstinately, 
"  but  other  days,  all  the  days.  I  can't  give  up  the  most 
beautiful  thing  there  is,  and  you  're  that.  You  're  simply 
the  most  beautiful  there  is." 

"  There 's  grannie  coming  out  on  the  veranda."  Then 
she  added  bitterly,  "  I  wonder  if  she  will  think  I  am  the 
most  beautiful  thing  there  is!" 


XXI 

MACLEOD  was  not  used  to  being  summoned, 
except  by  high  officials,  and  then  if  the  meeting 
would  not  advantage  his  cause,  he  was  likely  to  take 
a  journey  in  another  direction.  But  when  Osmond's 
man  invited  him  to  go  down  to  the  shack  that  morning, 
he  had  agreed  with  a  ready  emphasis,  and  now  walked 
along,  smiling  over  the  general  kindliness  of  things. 
The  change  of  air  after  his  sea  voyage  was  doing  him 
good,  and  he  had  been  able  to  command  anew  the  sense 
of  physical  prosperity  which  had  once  been  his  habitual 
possession.  That  forbade  him  morbid  premonitions 
and  withdrawals  relative  to  the  bodily  life.  It  hardly 
seemed  possible,  this  robust  guardian  declared,  that 
anything  should  happen  to  him,  save  after  a  very  long 
period,  when  inevitable  decay  would  set  in.  But  in  a 
harmonious  mood  such  as  this,  even  that  prospect  re 
treated  so  far  that  it  might  almost  as  well  not  threaten 
at  all.  He  had  no  doubt  that  when  change  fell  upon  the 
aged,  it  was  as  beneficent  in  its  approach  as  the  on 
coming  of  sleep.  But  of  these  things  he  need  not  think, 
except  as  they  might  be  brought  to  his  mind  by  the  disas 
ters  of  other  people.  Acquiesce  in  the  course  of  nature, 
said  his  philosophy,  and  refuse  to  anticipate  trouble 
as  trouble.  It  could  always  be  curbed  or  stamped  out 
when  it  came.  That  abounding  certainty  was  a  part  of 
his  power. 

He  found  his  way  without  difficulty.   The  neat  rows 
260 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

of  growing  things  led  him  in  from  the  road,  and  direct 
ing  his  steps  toward  the  shack,  where  he  had  understood 
Osmond  lived,  he  saw  a  figure  advancing  to  meet  him, 
a  man  in  a  blue  blouse,  like  a  workman,  beating  his 
hands  together  as  he  came,  to  dust  the  soil  from  them. 
When  they  were  at  a  convenient  interval,  the  man  looked 
at  MacLeod  with  a  measuring  gaze,  and  MacLeod  re 
turned  the  challenge  with  what  was,  perhaps,  too  frank 
encouragement.  He  put  out  his  hand,  but  Osmond  shook 
his  head.  He  opened  his  two  palms,  displaying  them. 

"  I  did  n't  expect  you  for  a  few  minutes  yet,"  he  said, 
"or  I  should  have  washed.  I'm  just  out  of  the  dirt. 
Come  on  down  to  the  house.  We  won't  go  in.  There 
are  some  seats  outside." 

MacLeod  knew  at  once,  through  the  keen  sense  that 
served  him  in  his  fellowship  with  men,  that  the  excuse 
was  a  true  one,  yet  that  Osmond  was  glad  he  had  it  to 
offer.  He  evidently  had  no  desire  to  shake  hands.  That 
seemed  reasonable  enough.  The  man  was  quite  unlike 
other  men  in  his  unstudied  speech,  the  clear,  healthy, 
and  yet  childlike  look  of  his  eyes.  It  was  as  if,  working 
in  the  earth,  he  had  become  a  part  of  it.  When  they 
were  in  the  shade  of  the  great  oak  tree  by  the  house, 
each  in  his  rough  chair,  MacLeod  stretched  out  his 
legs,  with  much  enjoyment,  and  offered  his  host  a  cigar. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Osmond.  He  felt  briefly,  and 
was  ashamed  of  himself  for  entertaining  it,  a  childish 
regret  that  he  did  not  smoke.  Every  easy  habit  gave  the 
man  of  the  world  an  advantage  the  more.  "Light  up," 
he  said  grimly,  as  MacLeod,  after  a  questioning  look 
which  seemed  also  a  commiserating  one,  was  about  to 

261 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

return  the  case  to  his  pocket.  "I  like  to  see  it  —  and 
smell  it  —  rather." 

So  MacLeod  brought  out  his  pipe  and  did  light  up. 

"I  smoke  very  little,"  he  explained.  "That's  the 
way  to  skim  the  cream.  It's  the  temperate  man  for 
flavors.  Know  that?" 

Osmond,  temperate  in  all  ways  from  necessity,  hardly 
knew  how  he  should  have  felt  about  it  if  desires  and 
delight  had  presented  themselves  to  him  as  companions, 
not  as  foes.  He  pulled  himself  up,  with  an  effort.  Mac 
Leod's  effect  on  him  was  something  for  which  he  was 
not  prepared.  The  man's  physical  fitness,  his  self- 
possession  in  the  face  of  anything  that  might  be  re 
quired  of  him,  made  hot  blood  in  Osmond.  There  was 
no  ground  for  them  to  meet  upon.  Temperance  of  life 
in  order  to  enjoy  the  more  keenly  ?  Then,  to  be  honest, 
he  would  have  to  confess  that  for  him  temperance  was 
his  master,  and  that  was  a  confidence  he  would  not  give. 
There  could  be  no  easy  commonplaces.  He  spoke 
bluntly :  — 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you." 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,  too,"  said  MacLeod  cordially. 
"Of  course  I  know  all  about  you.  Peter  talks  about 
you  by  the  yard." 

Osmond's  rebellious  tongue  formed  the  words,  "  I 
don't  believe  it."  But  he  did  not  utter  them. 

"You've  worked  out  a  mighty  interesting  scheme 
down  here,"  MacLeod  continued,  taking  his  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth  and  looking  about  him. 

"We  have  worked,"  said  Osmond. 

"It's  like  the  older  peasant  life  of  Europe."  Mac- 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Leod  spoke  rather  at  random,  seeking  about  for  some 
thoroughfare  with  his  crusty  host.  "  A  sort  of  paternal 
government  —  " 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Osmond.  "My  men  are  my 
neighbors.  They  work  for  me  and  I  pay  them." 

"  Without  discontent  ?  " 

"I  hope  so.  If  I  found  a  man  doing  half  time  and 
grumbling,  I  should  kick  him  out." 

"  They  don't  combine  ?  " 

"  We  all  combine.  I  get  good  work.  They  get  good 
wages.  It's  a  square  deal." 

"  Profit-sharing  ?  " 

"No,  not  exactly." 

"It  strikes  me  as  a  sort  of  community,"  said  Mac 
Leod.  "Everybody  at  work  and  everything  in  com 
mon." 

"Now,  why  does  it  strike  you  that  everything  is  in 
common?  The  place  is  mine." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  fellow ! "  MacLeod  forgot  the  simpli 
city  of  the  moment  and  put  on  his  platform  voice. 
"Nothing  is  ours." 

Osmond  regarded  him  with  a  slow  smile  coming,  — 
his  perfect  clothes,  his  white  hand,  his  air  of  luxurious 
equipment. 

"Isn't  it?"  he  asked  ironically.  "Well,  it  looks 
mighty  like  it.  But  I  have  n't  any  data.  I  know  what 
goes  on  inside  my  own  fences.  I  don't  know  much  more. 
What  do  you  want  of  Peter  ?  " 

"To-day?" 

"  Any  time.  All  the  time.  He  has  joined  your  league. 
What  do  you  intend  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

263 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

MacLeod  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  stretched 
his  legs  a  little  farther.  He  regarded  the  outer  circle  of 
hills,  and  then  brought  his  gaze  back  over  the  pleasant 
rolling  land  between.  Finally  he  looked  at  Osmond  and 
smiled  at  him  in  what  seemed  a  community  of  feeling. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "I  am  not  considering 
the  individual." 

"I  am,"  said  Osmond,  with  an  offensive  bluntness. 
"I  am  considering  Peter.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  him  ?  " 

"Your  brother  joined  us  of  his  own  free  will." 

"Yes.  But  now  you've  got  him,  what  do  you  want 
to  do  with  him  ?  " 

"  Is  n't  it  of  any  use  for  me  to  tell  you  that  when  a 
man  joins  us,  he  has  passed  beyond  personal  recogni 
tion  or  privilege  ?  Outside  our  circle,  he  is  an  individual ; 
he  counts.  Inside  —  well,  it  is  difficult  to  say  what  he  is. 
We  want  him  then  to  consider  himself  one  of  the  drops 
that  make  a  sea.  The  sea  washes  down  things  —  even 
the  cliffs.  The  drop  of  water  is  of  no  importance  alone. 
With  a  million,  million  others,  it  moves.  It  crushes." 

Osmond  sat  looking  straight  at  him  with  eyes  that 
burned.  His  hands,  hanging  at  his  side,  were  clenched. 
He  recognized  the  might  of  the  man,  the  crude  physical 
power  of  him  like  an  emanation,  and  he  felt  the  despair 
ing  helplessness  of  trying  to  move  a  potency  like  that. 
Cliffs  might  be  corroded  by  the  sea ;  but  a  human  force 
that  respects  no  other  cannot  be  easily  invaded.  He 
spoke  without  his  own  will,  and  heard  himself  speak 
ing:— 

"  You  have  n't  any  soul ! " 
264 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

MacLeod  was  regarding  him  with  as  direct  a  gaze. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  asked,  with  a 
moderate  interest.  "  Do  you  mean  I  have  n't  any  mercy, 
any  kindness  ?  Is  that  what  you  mean  ?  " 

It  was  not  what  he  meant.  It  was  the  indwelling  spirit 
such  as  he  saw  in  grannie,  the  mobile  thing  in  Peter 
that,  changing,  blossoming  in  errant  will  here  and  there 
as  the  sun  of  life  bade  it,  seemed  in  one  form  or  another 
to  proclaim  itself  undying.  He  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  "that's  not  what  I  mean." 

A  smile  ran  over  MacLeod's  face  and  moved  it  most 
delightfully. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "if  we're  going  to  take  inventories 
—  have  you  a  soul  ? " 

Osmond  shook  his  head  again. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered. 

"  Well,  then,  what's  the  use  of  slanging  me  ?  If  you  're 
in  the  same  box  yourself  —  Come,  who  has  one  ?  has 
anybody  ?  " 

Osmond  thought  then  of  Rose,  and  of  the  fire  of  the 
spirit  playing  over  her,  that  brightness  he  could  neither 
classify  nor  define.  Yet  he  must  believe  in  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "I  have  seen  it." 

"  You  have  ?  And  you  think  I  'm  exempt.   Why  ?  " 

Osmond  was  not  getting  anywhere.  MacLeod  and 
his  own  ineptitude  of  speech  seemed  to  be  forcing  him 
into  the  solicitous  fright  of  the  mother,  bent  on  shielding 
her  child  from  the  wolf. 

"You  are  too  powerful,"  he  said,  and  realized  that 
he  was  using  the  evidence  Rose  had  given  him,  thought 
for  thought. 

205 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  hope  so.  I  ought  to  be.  I've  got  to  overturn 
power." 

"  What 's  the  use  ?  You  're  a  czar  yourself.  You  're 
only  another  kind." 

MacLeod  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  as  if  struck  by 
the  form  of  words. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  is  it  possible  you  believe 
in  the  present  state  of  things  ?  Do  you  want  one  man  to 
possess  everything  and  the  next  man  nothing  ?  " 

Osmond  frowned  his  negation.  MacLeod,  unfairly 
it  seemed  to  him,  made  him  feel  young  and  inadequate 
to  the  matter.  He  had  the  eyes  to  see  what  cause  was 
just,  yet  he  had  not  the  equipment  to  maintain  any 
cause  at  all. 

"What  is  the  use,"  he  essayed,  "for  you  and  men 
like  you  to  head  revolts  ?  It  only  means  you  are  ruling 
instead  of  the  rulers  you  overturn.  It  will  all  be  done 
over  again.  The  big  man  will  rise  to  the  top.  The  little 
man  will  go  under.  And  in  time  you  will  have  the  same 
conditions  repeated.  It's  because  you  are  not  teaching 
love.  You  are  teaching  envy  and  hate." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  am  ?  " 

Osmond  kept  on  as  if  he  were  speaking  to  himself, 
groping  painfully  for  what  he  found. 

"You  are  not  preaching  good  work.  You  are  preach 
ing  revolt  against  work  —  class  hatred  and  discon 
tent." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  non-resistance  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  Midas,  king  of  gold,  swelled  up 
with  power,  sitting  smiling  on  the  throne  he  has  forced 

266 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

others  to  build  for  him,  and  saying,  'I  am  not  as  other 
men  are'?" 

"  No.  But  I  believe  in  work.  You  must  n't  take  it 
out  of  a  man,  that  certainty  that  his  own  work  is  the 
greatest  privilege  he 's  got.  Oh,  you  must  n't  do  that ! " 

There  it  was  again,  his  hungry  worship  of  achieve 
ment.  It  might  even  have  seemed  to  him  that  oppres 
sion  was  not  much  to  bear  if,  at  the  same  time,  a  man 
had  the  glory  of  setting  his  hand  to  something  and  seeing 
it  prosper.  MacLeod,  who  knew  something  about  his 
life,  but  nothing  of  its  inward  processes,  began  to  feel 
that  here  was  more  than  at  first  appeared,  and  answered 
rather  temperately,  — 

"I  don't  believe  you  know  much  about  the  general 
conditions  under  which  work  is  done.  Work  means  to 
you  Peter's  painting  a  picture.  Let  it  mean,  for  example, 
a  great  many  Peters  in  a  mine  delving  all  day  for  some 
smug  capitalist  who  wants  to  endow  monuments  to 
himself  and  get  his  children  into  society.  What  then  ?  " 

What  then,  indeed?  Osmond  could  not  answer; 
but  a  moment  later  he  said  again,  tenaciously,  — 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  destroy  the  idea  of  good  work." 

"Well,  now!"  MacLeod  spoke  impatiently.  He  re 
alized  that  here  was  not  a  man  whom  his  torrent  of 
bloody  facts  would  move,  but  who  demanded  also  a 
more  persuasive  rhetoric.  "  Well,  now,  you  acknowledge 
the  world  is  upside  down.  Shall  we  leave  it  so?" 

Osmond  shook  his  head  dumbly. 

"Shall  we  say  the  great  scheme  counteracts  its  own 
abuses,  and  we  won't  interfere?  When  an  empire  gets 
sufficiently  corrupt,  it  tumbles  apart  of  its  own  rot- 

267 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

tenness?  Or  when  we  see  just  cause,  shall  we  go  to 
war?" 

"Grannie  has  the  whole  secret  of  it  in  her  hand." 
This  he  said  involuntarily,  for  he  had  no  idea  of  talking 
to  MacLeod  about  grannie.  But  the  subject  had  passed 
beyond  their  predilections  of  what  was  best  to  say. 
"  Science  won't  do  it  —  war  won't  do  it.  Religion  will." 

"Ah!  You  are  an  enthusiast." 

"No.  But  there  is  something  beyond  force  and  be 
yond  reason." 

"Religion,  you  mean." 

"You  can  call  it  that.  It  is  what  has  made  that  old 
woman  up  there  at  the  house  live  every  day  of  her  life 
as  if  she  were  the  multi-millionaire  of  the  universe  — 
without  a  thought  of  herself,  without  a  doubt  that  there 
is  an  inexhaustible  reservoir,  and  that  everybody  can 
dip  into  it  and  bring  up  the  water  of  life.  Sometimes 
when  she  told  me  that  —  how  rich  we  all  are,  if  we  only 
knew  it  —  I  used  to  see  the  multitudes  of  hands  dip 
ping  in  for  their  drop  —  old  wrinkled  hands,  children's 
hands." 

He  was  musing  now,  and  yet  admitting  the  other 
man  to  his  confidence.  It  was  proof  of  MacLeod's 
charm  that  even  Osmond,  who  kept  his  true  self  to 
himself,  and  who  started  by  hating  a  girl's  oppressor, 
had  nevertheless  fallen  into  a  maze  of  self -betrayal. 
MacLeod  spoke  softly,  as  if  he  recognized  the  spell  and 
would  not  break  it :  — 

"Yet,  the  Founder  of  her  religion  said,  *I  came  not 
to  send  peace,  but  a  sword.' " 

"  How  do  you  know  who  the  Founder  of  her  religion 
268 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

is  ?  I  don't  know  it  myself.  I  don't  know  but  she  dug 
it  out  of  the  ground,  or  breathed  it  out  of  the  air.  She 
has  her  sword,  too,  grannie  has.  You  never  saw  her 
licking  a  boy  for  torturing  a  rat.  I  have." 

"What  shall  we  do?" 

Osmond  roused  himself  a  little  from  his  muse. 

"  I  read  something  the  other  day  in  a  book  —  about 
the  town  of  Abdera.  I  suppose  you  know  it." 

MacLeod  shook  his  head. 

"  In  the  town  of  Abdera  they  suddenly  began  to  love 
one  another,  that 's  all.  They  went  round  chanting,  *  O 
Cupid,  prince  of  God  and  men ! ' ': 

"  Is  that  going  to  obviate  all  the  difficulties  ? " 

Osmond  looked  at  him  with  dog's  eyes,  the  eyes  that 
seek  and  wonder  out  of  their  confusion  of  incomplete 
knowledge. 

"Every  man  would  refuse  to  rest,"  he  said,  "while 
any  other  man  was  hungry.  They  would  all  be  humble, 
the  rich  as  well  as  the  poor.  Now,  one 's  as  cocky  as  the 
other.  I  don't  know  that  the  cockiness  of  the  ignorant 
is  any  more  picturesque  than  the  cockiness  of  the 
privileged." 

MacLeod  was  smiling  a  little.  These,  he  saw,  were 
pretty  dreams,  but  hardly  of  the  texture  to  demand 
destruction.  They  would  fall  to  pieces,  in  good  time,  of 
their  own  flimsiness. 

"Do  you  believe  in  kings ?"  he  asked  idly. 

Osmond  glowed. 

"I  know  it's  a  mighty  pity  not  to,"  he  said.  "Some 
people  have  got  to  be  fostered  chiefly  because  they  have 
gifts.  If  you  don't  draw  a  little  circle  round  them,  you 

269 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

lose  the  gifts  maybe,  and  you  certainly  lose  the  fun  of 
adoring  them.  I  'd  like  to  be  a  soldier  of  Alexander  —  if 
I  could  n't  be  Alexander  himself.  But  you  '11  never  get 
anywhere  smashing  round  and  yelling  that  one  man  's 
better  than  another  because  he  works  with  his  hands. 
No!  the  man  that  brings  peace  will  bring  it  another 
way." 

MacLeod  regarded  him  for  a  moment  curiously. 

"  But  why,"  he  said  at  length,  "  why  won't  you  trust 
me  to  bring  it  precisely  that  way  ?  " 

Osmond  smiled  faintly. 

"No,"  he  said,  "you  could  n't." 

"But  why?  You  say  I  am  extremely  powerful.  You 
rather  accuse  me  of  it.  I  am  too  powerful,  in  fact. 
Was  n't  that  what  you  said  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  why  not  trust  me  to  administer  your  great 
awakening  ?  " 

Osmond  kept  his  ironic  smile  of  unbelief. 

"You  are  not  the  man,"  he  said.  "You  would  not 
believe  in  it.  You  would  n't  live  it.  You  are  very  power 
ful.  But  your  mastery  would  n't  serve  you.  That 's 
where  you  can't  pretend." 

"  Now  where  have  you  got  your  idea  of  me  ?  "  Mac 
Leod  was  looking  at  him  sharply.  "  You  never  saw  me 
before  to-day.  Yet  your  idea  was  already  formed  before 
I  came  down  here.  Who's  been  talking  to  you?" 

Osmond  had  entrenched  himself  at  last  in  his  cus 
tomary  reserve. 

"You  are  a  public  character,"  he  said  indifferently. 

"  Has  Peter  been  talking  about  me  ?  " 
270 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Yes.   He  speaks  of  you." 

"  But  not  in  this  fashion.  Peter  believes  in  me,  over 
head  and  ears." 

"Yes.   He  believes  in  you.   I  wish  he  did  n't." 

"Ah!"  MacLeod  drew  a  deep  breath.  "My  daugh 
ter  !  Do  you  know  my  daughter  ?  " 

The  question  was  too  quick,  and  Osmond  quivered 
under  the  assault  of  it.  He  felt  the  blood  in  his  face.  His 
heart  choked  him.  And  MacLeod's  eyes  were  upon 
him. 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?  "  MacLeod  was  asking  sharply. 

"  Yes,"  Osmond  heard  himself  answering,  in  a  moved 
voice.  "I  have  seen  her." 

MacLeod  spoke  with  what  seemed  to  the  other  man 
an  insulting  emphasis.  Yet  Osmond  had  not  time  to 
calm  himself  by  the  reminder  that  he  was  not  used  to 
hearing  Rose  spoken  of  at  all  as  mortal  woman.  In 
his  dreams  she  was  something  more  than  that. 

"My  daughter,"  MacLeod  was  saying,  "has  an 
intemperate  habit  of  speech.  If  she  has  talked  me  over 
with  you,  she  has  inevitably  made  your  opinions.  For 
Rose  is  a  very  beautiful  woman.  I  need  n't  tell  you 
that." 

Then  something  strange  happened  to  Osmond.  He 
experienced  a  sensation  which  he  had  accepted  as  a 
form  of  words,  and  had  only  idly  believed  in.  He  saw 
red.  A  rush  and  surge  were  in  his  ears.  And  as  if  it 
were  a  signal,  known  once  but  ignored  through  years 
of  tranquil  living,  he  as  instantly  obeyed.  He  was  on 
his  feet,  his  fists  clenched,  and  MacLeod,  also  risen,  was 
regarding  him  with  concern  and  even,  Osmond  thought 

271 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

in  fury,  with  compassion.  The  red  deepened  into  black 
and  Osmond  felt  the  suffocation  and  nausea  of  a  weak 
ness  MacLeod  instantly  formulated  for  him. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  was  saying,  "sit  down  here. 
You're  faint." 

But  Osmond  would  neither  sit  nor  accept  the  cup  of 
water  MacLeod  had  brought  him  from  the  pail  left  on 
the  bench  for  the  workmen.  He  stood,  keeping  his  grip 
on  himself  and  battling  back  to  life.  Presently  he  was 
conscious  that  Peter  was  there,  calling  him  affection 
ately.  Now  again  he  felt  the  blood  in  his  face,  the  wet 
ness  of  the  hair  above  his  forehead,  and  he  knew  he  was 
not  the  man  he  had  been.  MacLeod  was  speaking,  in 
evident  solicitude. 

"Your  brother  has  had  an  ill  turn.  He's  all  right 
now,  are  n't  you,  Grant?" 

Osmond  looked  at  him,  smiling  grimly.  MacLeod 
seemed  to  him  his  foe  not  only  for  the  sake  of  Rose,  but 
because  the  man,  great  insolent  child  of  good  fortune 
as  he  was,  represented  the  other  side  of  the  joy  of  fight. 
Osmond  almost  loved  him,  because  it  was  through  him 
that  he  had  been  inducted  into  a  knowledge  of  that 
unknown  glory.  MacLeod  picked  up  his  pipe  from  the 
bench,  tapped  it  empty,  and  pocketed  it.  He  gave  them 
a  pleasant  inclusive  nod  of  fellowship. 

"  I  '11  trot  along,"  said  he.  "  See  you  at  dinner,  Peter." 

"What  was  it,  Osmond?  What  was  it?"  Peter  was 
asking,  in  a  worried  voice. 

Osmond  suddenly  looked  tired.  He  passed  his  hand 
over  his  forehead,  and  put  back  his  matted  hair. 

"  Pete,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  it  was  a  hundred  things. 
272 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

But  all  it  really  was,  was  the  rage  for  fight,  plain  fight. 
But  whatever  it  was,  I  Ve  got  something  out  of  it." 

"What?" 

"  I  know  how  men  —  other  men  —  feel." 

"  Other  men  don't  want  to  tackle  one  another,  as  a 
general  thing,  like  bulldogs." 

"Oh,  yes!  they  recognize  the  instinct.  They're 
ready  to  stamp  on  it.  I  was  n't  ready.  I  'm  glad  to  have 
met  that  instinct.  It's  a  healthy  old  devil  of  an  instinct. 
I  respect  it." 

Peter  was  staring  as  if  he  did  not  know  him. 

"What  was  it,  Osmond?"  he  asked  again. 

Osmond  shook  his  head  and  laughed. 

"I'll  wash  my  hands,"  he  said.  "I  feel  as  if  there 
were  dirt  on  them  and  the  touch  of  clothes  that  are  not 
mine."  He  stopped  on  his  way  to  the  bench  where 
there  was  a  basin  and  towel  for  hasty  use.  "  Pete,"  he 
said,  "you  don't  want  to  scrap  a  little,  do  you?" 

He  did  not  look  like  the  same  man.  Light  was  in 
his  face,  overlying  the  flush  of  simple  passions.  He 
looked  almost  joyous.  It  was  Peter  who  was  distraught, 
older  with  a  puzzled  sadness. 

"Don't!"  he  said.  "Don't  think  of  such  devilment. 
There's  no  good  in  it.  Why,  we  get  over  that  when  we 
are  under  twenty  —  except  in  an  emergency." 

"Ah,  but  this  is  an  emergency,"  said  Osmond,  com 
ing  out  of  his  washing  with  clean  hands  and  a  dripping 
face.  "  It  was  an  emergency  for  me,  if  it  was  n't  for 
him." 


XXII 

MACLEOD  kept  his  thoughtful  way  on  to  Electra's 
gate.  There  he  turned  in  with  no  lack  of  decision, 
and  walked  up  to  her  door.  She  had  seen  him,  and  came 
forward  from  the  shaded  sitting-room.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  been  expecting  him.  Whether  she  had  acknowledged 
it  to  herself  or  not,  it  was  true  that  Electra  had  never 
felt  so  strong  a  desire  for  the  right  companionship  as  at 
that  moment.  As  soon  as  she  saw  him  and  he  had  put 
out  his  hand  to  her,  she  felt  quieted  and  blessed.  He  was, 
as  he  had  been  from  the  first,  the  completion  of  her 
mood.  As  he  looked  at  her,  MacLeod,  little  as  he  knew 
her  face,  noted  the  change  in  it.  She  seemed  greatly 
excited  and  yet  haggard,  as  if  this  disturbance  were 
nothing  to  what  had  preceded  it.  And  her  bright  eyes 
fed  upon  him  with  a  personal  appeal  to  which  he  was 
well  used:  that  of  the  lower  vitality  involuntarily  de 
manding  the  support  of  his  own  magnetic  treasury. 

"You  are  tired,"  he  said,  as  she  drew  her  hand  away 
and  they  sat  down. 

"  No,"  returned  Electra.   "  I  am  not  tired." 

"Tell  me  what  has  done  it!" 

The  tender  disregard  of  her  denial  broke  down  re 
serve.  She  looked  at  him  eloquently.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  he  had  a  right  to  know.  She  answered  faintly,  — 

"I  have  been  through  such  scenes." 

"Scenes?   With  whom?" 

"  Your  daughter  has  told  me  "  —  She  hesitated  for  a 
274 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

moment,  and  then,  still  confident  that  his  worship  of  the 
truth  must  be  as  exalted  as  her  own,  ended  with  un 
stinted  candor,  "She  says  she  was  not  my  brother's 
wife." 

Electra  was  looking  at  him,  and  it  appeared  to  her 
now  as  if,  in  a  bewildering  way,  his  gaze  absorbed  hers. 
It  was  very  strange,  how  he  seemed  to  draw  the  intelli 
gence  of  the  eye  into  his  and  hold  it  unresisting.  She 
hardly  knew  how  he  looked,  whether  surprised  or  sym 
pathetic,  or  whether  he  was  moved  at  all.  But  she  was 
conscious  of  being  gripped  by  some  communion  in  which 
she  acquiesced.  After  a  moment  he  leaned  forward  and 
took  her  hand. 

"Will  you  promise  me  something?"  he  asked. 

"Anything!"  The  quickness  of  the  answer  was  as 
eloquent  as  its  force. 

"  Promise  me  that  this  thing  —  this  subject  —  shall 
never  come  between  you  and  me." 

"Gladly." 

"We  won't  talk  of  it." 

"No." 

"  We  won't  ask  each  other  how  it  seems  to  us." 

"No." 

"There!"  He  released  her  hand,  and  seemed  also 
to  free  her,  in  some  subtle  way.  He  was  smiling  at  her, 
and  she  felt  a  keen  gladness,  like  a  child  who  is  told  he 
has  been  good. 

"Then  we  can  be  friends,"  he  said,  with  a  spontane 
ous  relief,  it  seemed  to  her,  like  her  own.  "The  best  of 
friends." 

"Yes.   The  best  of  friends." 
275 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Electra  felt  rich.  Her  heart  swelled,  as  now  she  re 
flected  that  here  was  one  who  understood  her.  She  had 
that  warm  consciousness  common  to  all  MacLeod's 
partisans,  that  his  world  and  hers  were  alike.  Each 
was  mysteriously  prevented  by  other  people  from 
enjoying  the  full  freedom  of  that  world,  because  each 
had  been,  until  now,  uncompanioned.  But  they  had  met 
at  last.  The  path  was  plain.  All  sorts  of  gates  were 
opening  to  them. 

"Was  that  all?"  MacLeod  was  asking  her.  "Were 
there  other  scenes  ?  " 

Immediately  she  wished  to  tell  him  everything.  Yet 
this  was  difficult.  She  hesitated. 

"I  am"  —  she  flushed  redly — "I  ani  not  engaged  to 
Peter.  He  does  n't  care  about  me." 

"My  dear  lady!  He  would  say  you  do  not  care  for 
him." 

Then  Electra  saw  her  good  fortune.  She  was  en 
chanted  with  the  freedom  which  had  fallen  upon  her 
in  time  for  her  to  accept  a  more  desirable  bondage. 
She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  in  a  proud  hap 
piness. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not  care  for  him.  I  never  did. 
I  see  it  now.  I  am  free." 

"  Are  you  glad  to  be  free  ?  " 

MacLeod  had  a  way  of  asking  women  persuasive 
questions.  Though  they  were  interrogative,  they  had 
the  force  of  suggestion,  of  the  clinching  protest  he  might 
make  in  answer,  when  confession  came.  And  they  only 
noted,  long  after,  that  he  never  did  answer.  Electra  did 
not  know  that  form  of  communion,  and  it  struck  her 

276 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

as  something  holy.  She  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  with  a 
clear  and  beautiful  gaze. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  very  glad.  Now  I  am  free  to 
devote  myself  to  the  most  wonderful  things,  to  worship 
them  if  I  like." 

There  was  passionate  sincerity  in  her  tone.  It 
would  have  made  a  smaller  thing  of  her  vow  if  she 
could  have  said  she  was  free  to  worship  him. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  something.  You  must  not 
repeat  it." 

"I  never  will." 

"  I  am  going  back  to  France." 

"You  have  been  summoned!" 

He  smiled  at  her  and  shook  his  head  slightly,  as  if 
the  manner  of  it  were  the  only  thing  he  could  deny. 
She  followed  with  another  question,  rather  faintly,  for 
his  news  left  her  shivering. 

"To  France,  you  said?" 

"  That  is  all  I  can  say,"  he  assured  her.  "  It  will  be 
France  first." 

"  You  will  be  in  danger ! "  She  did  not  put  that  as  a 
question.  It  was  an  assertion  out  of  her  solemn  accept 
ance  of  his  task.  But  that  he  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

"  When  are  you  coming  to  France  ?  "  he  asked  her. 

Electra  had  now  no  more  doubt  of  the  unspoken  pact 
between  them  than  if  it  had  been  sealed  by  all  the  most 
blessed  vows.  It  would  have  cheapened  it  rather  if  he 
had  delegated  her  to  the  classified  courts  of  sympathy. 
Instead,  it  left  them  a  universe  to  breathe  in.  It  pointed 
to  undiscovered  cities  beyond  the  marge  of  time.  It 
made  her  his  in  a  way  transcending  mutual  promises. 

277 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

This  same  full  belief  rose  passionately  to  assert  itself, 
and  perhaps  to  soothe  that  small  sharp  ache  in  her  heart, 
the  kind  that  rises  in  woman  when  man,  though  he 
takes  the  cup,  yet  offers  none  in  turn. 

"Immediately,"  she  answered,  without  question. 
"  Or,  when  you  tell  me  to  come." 

"  Will  you  write  to  me  there  ?  "  He  scribbled  a  street 
and  number  on  a  blank  card  and  gave  it  to  her.  "  I 
shall  not  get  word  from  you  for  a  month,  at  least.  Per 
haps  not  until  the  late  autumn.  But  I  shall  get  it.  And 
if  I  don't  answer,  you  will  know  I  shall  answer  by  com 
ing  —  when  I  can." 

Even  that  seemed  enough.  It  was  evident  that  until 
he  came  she  would  be  upholding  something  for  him, 
keeping  the  faith.  It  was  beautiful  in  a  still,  noble  way, 
one  that  left  her  indescribably  uplifted.  Her  eyes  were 
wet  when  he  looked  at  her.  Seen  thus,  Electra  was 
a  fine  creature,  her  severity  of  outline  softened  into 
womanly  charm.  It  seemed  unnecessary  to  claim  from 
him  any  high  assurance  of  what  he  had  for  her  to  do, 
yet  she  did  say,  for  the  pleasure  of  saying  it,  — 

"  You  are  going  to  let  me  help  you  ?  " 

"What  else  is  there  for  either  of  us  to  do,"  he  said 
quickly,  "  but  to  help  everybody  ?  " 

The  blood  rushed  swiftly  to  her  face  and  showed  her 
in  a  glow.  She  leaned  toward  him  in  a  timid  and  what 
seemed  to  her,  for  a  moment,  an  ignoble  confidence, 
because  it  touched  such  sordid  things. 

"  I  have  some  money.  I  will  give  that  —  and  any 
thing  I  have.  You  must  teach  me.  I  have  everything 
to  learn." 

278 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

He  seemed  to  promise  that,  as  he  seemed  to  promise 
other  things,  partly  by  his  answering  smile,  partly  by 
the  inexplicable  current  of  persuasion  pouring  from  him. 
He  rose. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I  must  go.    It  is  nearly  noon." 

"  You  won't  stay  to  luncheon  ?  " 

"Won't  the  others  be  here?" 

"  My  grandmother  and  Mr.  Stark." 

She  was  hardly  urging  him,  because  it  seemed  to  her, 
too,  a  doubtful  pleasure,  if  it  must  be  shared. 

"  Not  to-day,  then.    But  I  shall  see  you  again." 

"  Before  you  go." 

Her  face  called  upon  him  like  a  messenger  beseech 
ing  news. 

"  Many,  many  times,"  he  told  her  smilingly.  "  Many 
times,  even  if  they  have  to  be  within  a  few  days.  Now, 
good-by." 

She  watched  him  down  the  walk,  and  as  if  he  knew 
that,  he  turned,  as  the  shrubbery  was  closing  about 
him,  and  waved  his  hat  to  her.  That  seemed  another 
bit  of  prescience,  —  to  know  she  was  to  be  there.  Electra 
was  very  happy.  She  sat  down  again  in  a  swoon  of  the 
reason  and  a  mad  hurry  of  what  cried  to  her  as  the  higher 
part  of  her  nature,  unrecognized  until  now,  and  thought 
of  her  exalted  fortune. 

MacLeod  found  Rose  ready  to  question  him.  She 
was  at  the  gate,  to  have  her  word  immediately.  He 
noted  the  signs  of  apprehension  in  her  face,  and,  taking 
her  hand,  swung  it  as  they  walked. 

"Has  anything  happened?"  she  asked  irrepressi- 
bly. 

279 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  I  Ve  been  down  to  —  what  do  they  call  it  ?  —  the 
plantation." 

"  What  did  you  talk  about  ?  " 

"Oh,  crops!" 

"  You  don't  know  anything  about  crops ! " 

MacLeod  laughed. 

"Well,  the  other  man  did.  I  can  always  listen." 

"  Have  you  been  there  all  the  time  ?  " 

"No.  I  went  in  to  see  Electra." 

Rose  stopped  short  in  the  path  between  the  banks 
of  flowers.  It  was  a  still  day,  and  the  summer  hush  of 
the  plot  —  a  velvet  stillness  where  the  garden  held  its 
breath  —  made  the  time  momentous  to  her.  Uncon 
sciously  she  gripped  her  father's  hand. 

"She  has  told  you!"  she  breathed.  Her  eyes  sought 
his  face.  MacLeod  was  looking  at  her  smilingly,  fondly 
even.  She  shuddered. 

"You  are  a  goose,  Rose,"  he  said  lightly.  He  re 
leased  his  fingers  from  the  clasp  of  hers  and  gave  her 
hand  a  little  shake  before  he  dropped  it.  "  But  I  can't 
help  it.  If  you  will  go  on  tipping  over  your  saucer  of 
cream,  why,  you  must  do  it,  that 's  all." 

They  walked  on,  and  at  the  steps  she  paused  again, 
though  she  heard  Peter's  voice  within. 

"  You  're  terribly  angry  with  me,  are  n't  you  ?  "  she 
said,  in  a  low  tone,  seeming  to  make  it  half  communion 
with  herself. 

"  Angry,  my  girl !  Don't  say  a  thing  like  that." 

"You  look  exactly  as  you  did  the  night  Ivan  Gorof 
defied  you  —  and  the  next  day  he  died." 

MacLeod  laughed  again,  so  humorously  that  Peter, 
280 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

coming  forward  from  the  library,  his  own  face  serious 
with  unwelcome  care,  smiled  involuntarily  and  returned 
to  his  every-day  mood  of  belief  that,  on  the  whole,  things 
go  well. 

"I  didn't  kill  him,"  MacLeod  was  saying,  as  he 
mounted  the  steps. 

Rose  shivered  a  little. 

"No,"  she  insisted.   "But  he  died." 

MacLeod  was  beguilingly  entertaining  at  dinner  that 
day,  and  in  the  afternoon  he  and  Peter  went  to  drive. 
At  supper,  too,  he  was  in  his  best  mood,  and  that 
evening  Rose,  worn  out  by  the  strain  of  his  persistent 
dominance,  escaped  to  her  own  room.  There  she  sat 
and  counseled  her  tense  nerves.  She  was  afraid.  Then 
when  she  heard  the  closing  of  grannie's  door,  she  slipped 
downstairs  to  her  tryst.  The  night  was  dark,  and  there 
was  a  grumble  of  thunder  from  the  west.  In  her  ex 
citement  she  took  swift  steps,  as  if  all  her  senses  were 
more  keenly  awake  than  they  had  been  in  the  light, 
and  kept  the  path  unerringly.  She  had  no  doubt  that 
he  was  there,  but  he  called  to  her  before  she  could 
ask.  His  voice  vibrated  to  the  excitement  in  her  own 
heart. 

"Good  child,  to  come!" 

She  found  her  chair  and  sank  into  it. 

"  I  had  to  come."  At  once  she  felt  light-hearted.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  bounds  to  his  protection  of  her.  "I 
have  told  Electra." 

"I  knew  you  would." 

"  She  has  told  Peter.  They  know  it  now,  —  all  but 
grannie,  —  dear  grannie." 

281 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"She  can  wait.  She  won't  flicker.  She  won't  vary. 
Nothing  can  shake  grannie's  old  heart." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  to-day  ?  " 

Osmond  laughed.  It  was  a  low  note  of  pleasure. 

"Platitudes,"  he  rejoined. 

"  And  what  did  you  say  to  him  ?  " 

"Platitudes  again.  He  said  his  kind,  I  said  mine.  I 
learned  a  few  truths." 

"  About  his  business  ?  —  that 's  what  it  is.  I  can  say 
it  when  I  'm  not  in  the  same  room  with  him  —  business." 

"About  me.  I  learned  what  other  fellows  know 
when  they  are  boys." 

"  Did  he  teach  you  ?  " 

"He?  No.  Yes.  Through  my  hatred  of  him." 

"Ah,  then  you  hated  him!  Was  it  because  I  taught 
you  to  ?  * 

"Partly.  Partly  because  he  is  an  insolent  animal. 
He  is  kind  because  he  is  well-fed.  Yet  I  think  it  was 
chiefly  because  he  has  ill-used  you." 

"Yes,"  she  owned  sadly.  "I  betrayed  him  to  you." 

But  Osmond  had  escaped  from  recollection  of  the 
day  into  a  mood  half  meditative,  half  excited  fancy. 

"I  have  been  thinking  back,  since  he  left  me,"  he 
said,  "ever  so  many  years.  I  see  I  haven't  had  any 
life  at  all." 

"Ah!"  It  was  a  quick  breath  of  something  sweeter 
than  pity.  It  could  not  hurt. 

"  I  have  been  turning  away  from  things  all  my  life, 
because  they  were  not  for  me.  But  now  I  think  —  what 
if  I  did  n't  turn  away  ?  What  if  I  met  them  face  to 
face?" 

282 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  What,  playmate  ?  You  puzzle  me." 

"Grannie  indulged  Peter.  Even  in  his  eating,  she 
could  n't  refuse  him  anything." 

"But  she  loved  you  best!" 

"No  doubt  of  it.  But  he  was  well.  He  could  have 
anything,  even  hunks  of  cake.  Grannie  hates  to  deny 
pleasures  to  any  living  thing.  'I  guess  it  won't  hurt 
you ! '  I  've  heard  her  say  it  to  him  over  and  over.  But 
to  me  —  " 

"To  you?" 

"Why,  to  me  she  never  varied.  'Son,'  she'd  say, 
'that  is  n't  the  way  to  do.  We  can't  risk  it.'  So  I  turned 
aside  and  ate  good  crusty  bread  and  drank  milk.  I 
did  n't  want  cake.  I  did  n't  want  Peter's  coffee.  But 
I  wonder  how  it  would  seem  to  have  ridden  them  all 
bareback,  all  vices,  all  indulgences,  and  conquered 
them  after  I  'd  known  them  —  not  turned  aside  and 
gone  the  other  way." 

In  that  mood  she  hardly  knew  him.  The  clean,  sweet, 
childlike  quality  had  gone ;  it  had  fled  before  this  breath 
of  the  passion  of  life.  She  felt  vaguely  how  wrong  he 
was.  He  was  idealizing  the  world  as  he  did  not  know  it 
and  the  conquest  of  the  world  as  it  appeared  in  her 
father,  the  master  of  all  its  arts. 

"Playmate,"  she  said,  though  she  was  doubtful  of 
her  own  wisdom. 

"Yes,  playmate." 

"There  isn't  anything  desirable  in  evil  knowledge. 
I  've  heard  him  say  —  you  know  —  " 

"Tom  Fulton?" 

"  Yes.  I  've  heard  him  say  he  wanted  to  know  every- 
283 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

thing  about  life  —  bad  and  good.  He  was  black  with 
knowledge.  I  might  have  learned  it  from  him.  I  thank 
God  he  spared  me  that.  I  wish  you  would  be  grateful 
for  your  clean  life.  I  wish  you'd  see  there's  no  magic 
in  the  things  my  father  knows,  for  instance.  It 's  better 
to  make  a  lily  grow." 

"Ah,  but  I've  discovered  things  in  myself  that  are 
exactly  like  the  things  in  other  men  —  and  other  men 
are  used  to  them.  So  when  an  ugly  beast  puts  up  its 
head,  the  man  gives  it  a  crack  and  knocks  it  silly.  Then 
it  lies  down  a  spell,  and  the  man  goes  about  his  busi 
ness.  He  gets  used  to  its  growling  and  clawing  away  at 
intervals.  He's  only  to  knock  it  down.  But  I  don't 
fully  know  yet  what  is  in  that  pit  of  mine.  I  discovered 
something  to-day." 

"What?" 

"The  lust  for  fight." 

She  shuddered. 

"  I  was  n't  prepared  for  it.  Another  time  I  should 
be.  It  was  an  ugly  devil  —  but  I  loved  it." 

She  was  silent,  and  after  a  moment  he  asked  her,  in 
his  old  anxious,  friendly  tone,  "  Have  I  hurt  you  ?  " 

"  No.   But  somehow  it  seems  as  if  you  'd  gone  away." 

"I  know.  I'm  still  communing  with  that  brute  in 
me  —  the  fighting  brute.  I  must  be  honest  with  you.  I 
can't  help  thinking  he'd  give  me  a  special  kind  of 
pleasure." 

"  Would  he  ?  "  She  asked  it  wistfully.  He  had  opened 
the  windows  of  their  house  to  strange  discords  from 
without.  "What  kind  of  pleasure?" 

He  was  glad  to  tell.  The  magnitude  and  newness  of 
284 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

his  emotion  that  day  made  it  something  to  be  flaunted 
while  the  disturbed  currents  of  his  blood  kept  their  fer 
vor.  Later  he  might  put  it  to  the  test  of  equable  judg 
ment.  Now  it  was  all  a  glory  of  hot  action. 

"Playmate,"  he  said,  "I  wanted  to  kill  him." 

"My  father?    Oh,  why,  why?" 

"Maybe  for  your  sake.  Yes!  there  was  an  instant 
when  I  said  I  would  kill  him  and  free  you  from  him." 
She  could  not  answer.  He  heard  the  rustle  of  her  dress 
and  added  quickly,  "Now,  don't  go.  Of  all  nights,  to 
night  is  the  night  I  can't  spare  you." 

"  I  thought  it  was  the  one  when  you  did  n't  need 
me." 

"I  need  you  to  listen.  I'm  a  blaring,  trumpeting 
egotist  to-night.  Please  understand  me!  Stop  being  a 
woman  a  minute,  and  see  how  it  would  seem  to  be  a 
man  —  not  like  me,  but  free  to  live  and  sin  and  refuse 
to  sin." 

"You  are  free,"  she  said,  in  her  low,  pained  voice. 
"  You  have  refused  all  the  ignoble  things." 

"Ah,  but  I  did  n't  even  parley  with  them.  I  wish  I 
could  feel  I'd  whacked  them  and  broken  their  skulls 
instead  of  going  the  other  way." 

"Playmate,"  she  cried,  "you  are  all  wrong.  You 
must  not  parley  with  them.  You  must  refuse  to  look  at 
them." 

"  Refuse  to  look  at  the  worm  that  eats  the  root  ?  No . 
Find  him  and  stamp  on  him.  The  worst  of  it  is,  I  begin 
to  be  rather  terrified.  I  see  that  life  is  a  bigger  thing 
than  I  thought." 

"  Not  to  grannie.  To  her  it 's  big  and  simple." 
285 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Because  she  knows  the  way.  Well,  what  if  there 
are  many  ways,  —  not  like  hers,  not  the  true  way,  — 
but  ways  we  ought  to  look  at  before  we  can  say  we 
know  life  at  all?  Think  of  it,  playmate.  You  are  a 
woman,  younger  than  I,  delicate  as  a  rose;  yet  you 
know  more  about  life  than  I.  You  know  how  to  meet 
men  and  women.  There  are  n't  surprises  you  can't 
master." 

She  sat  wondering  what  it  was  that  had  moved  him, 
and  whether  it  was  not  simply  the  power  of  MacLeod's 
personality,  equally  compelling  to  love  or  hate.  But 
Osmond  was  going  on  in  that  fierce  monologue. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  waked  up.  Once  I  had 
my  riding  dream.  Now  I  have  a  million  dreams.  Did 
I  tell  you  my  riding  dream  ?  Some  nights  —  chiefly 
when  there 's  a  moon  —  I  wake  and  lie  there  and  fancy 
I  am  on  a  horse.  Th  ere 's  the  smell  of  the  horse  and 
the  leather,  the  creak  of  the  saddle,  and  we  are  riding 
like  the  devil  or  the  wind,  always  over  plains  that 
stretch  out  into  more  miles,  however  far  I  ride.  I  am 
bent  over  the  saddle,  peering  forward.  That's  what  I 
had  when  my  blood  moved  too  fast  for  me.  Now  I 
shall  dream  of  fight.  Playmate,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"It  is  n't  anything.   I  did  n't  speak." 

"  Yes,  but  there  was  that  quick  little  breath.  I  keep 
hurting  you  somehow.  Do  you  suppose  I  want  any  of 
it  except  for  you  ?  I  want  to  ride  to  you.  I  want  to  fight 
because  I  could  fight  for  you." 

"  Ah,"  she  said  sadly,  "  you  think  so  now  for  a  min 
ute.  But  you  had  forgotten  me." 

"Yes,  I  had,"  he  owned.  "That's  being  a  man,  too. 
286 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

We  have  to  forget  you  or  we  could  n't  ride  and  we 
could  n't  fight.   But  it's  all  for  you." 

There  was  the  thunder  again. 

"I  must  go  back,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  it's  going  to  rain.  You  must  go.  One  minute. 
It  won't  come  yet.  Does  he  know  you  have  told  Elec- 
tra?" 

"My  father?  Yes." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  —  accepted  it."  For  some  reason,  she  dared 
not  tell  him  how  that  acceptance  troubled  her.  Osmond 
himself  seemed  like  an  unknown  force  as  ready  to  bring 
confusion  as  calm. 

But  he  knew. 

"You  are  afraid  of  him,"  he  said.  "Dear  child, 
don't  be  afraid.  Sit  down  hard  and  say  'no'  and  'no,' 
whatever  he  demands.  You  are  here  with  us.  Grannie 
is  an  angel  of  light.  She'll  send  for  shining  cohorts 
and  they'll  camp  round  about  you.  There's  Peter  — 
your  Peter.  And  I'll  die  for  you." 

"  No !  no ! "  The  assurance  of  his  tone  was  terrifying 
to  her.  She  saw  him  dying  in  unnecessary  sacrifice. 
"Nobody  must  die  for  me.  We  must  all  live  and  be 
good  children  and  do  what  grannie  would  want  us  to." 

"Then  the  first  thing  is  to  run  home  and  go  to  bed. 
The  storm  is  coming.  Good-night,  dear  playmate. 
I  '11  follow  on  behind  and  see  you  don't  get  lost." 

"One  minute!"  She  paused,  not  knowing  how  to 
say  it.  "Can't  you  take  it  back?"  she  adventured. 
"  What  you  said  about  my  father  ? " 

He  laughed,  with  an  undertone  of  wild  emotion. 
287 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  Not  even  for  you !  I  did  want  to  kill  him.  If  I  got 
my  hands  on  him,  I  should  want  it  again.  But  it  was 
for  you." 

"  Good-night." 

She  was  going,  and  he  called  after  her,  — 

"Remember!" 

"What  shall  I  remember?" 

She  halted  hopefully,  and  the  old  kind  voice  was 
near  her : — 

"  Remember  I  would  die  for  you.'* 


XXIII 

PETER  was  early  at  Osmond's  door.  He  did  not 
find  him  working,  though  the  other  men  had  been 
many  hours  afield,  but  standing  still  gazing  off  into  the 
distance.  Osmond  was  pale.  He  looked  as  if  he  had 
not  slept,  and  the  lines  about  his  mouth  hinted  at  de 
cisions. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Peter  abruptly. 

"Yes.  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  too."  The  answer 
was  gravely  and  almost  unwillingly  given.  "  Come  out 
under  the  tree." 

They  took  their  way  silently  to  the  apple  tree,  but 
there  neither  could,  after  old  custom  in  a  talk,  throw 
himself  on  the  ground  to  luxuriate  and,  in  moments  of 
doubt,  chew  a  blade  of  grass.  Peter  walked  back  and 
forth,  a  short  tether.  Osmond,  fixed  in  some  unex 
plained  reserve,  awaited  him.  Peter  spoke  first,  ner 
vously. 

"Electra  has  given  me  up." 

"Well,  it  was  bound  to  come." 

"Why  was  it?" 

"It  was  a  dream,  Pete.  You  dreamed  it  when  you 
were  a  boy.  It  was  the  best  you  had  then." 

"Well,  there's  something  else.  That's  not  a  dream. 
But  I  don't  know  that  I  can  talk  of  it  yet.  What  was 
it  you  wanted  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

At  intervals  all  night  Osmond  had  been  wondering 
how  to  broach  it. 

289 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  You  know,  boy,"  he  began  at  last,  "  it  is  n't  good 
for  you  any  more  to  have  me  send  you  money." 

Peter  stared. 

"But  it's  our  money,"  he  said. 

Osmond  too  stared,  but  not  at  him.  He  was  wonder 
ing  whether  Peter  could  possibly  fail  to  see  that  the 
money,  all  these  years,  had  not  come  by  favor,  that 
it  had  been  earned  by  Osmond's  own  arduous  grap 
pling  with  the  earth,  that  struggle  out  of  which  the 
man  had  gained  strength  and  the  earth  had  yielded 
her  fruits. 

"You  see,  boy,"  he  hesitated,  " there  isn't  anything 
but  the  place,  and  that 's  grannie's." 

"Yes,  but  the  place  earns  something." 

"  Not  without  a  good  deal  put  into  it." 

"Ah!"  Peter  drew  a  breath  of  pure  surprise.  "You're 
tired  of  overseeing,  old  boy.  I  don't  wonder.  Of  course 
you  must  let  up." 

Again  Osmond  waited,  not  so  much  to  commune  with 
himself  as  from  sheer  disinclination  to  face  the  awk 
wardness  of  speech.  It  was  impossible  to  say,  "  I  am 
not  tired  of  serving  you,  but  you  must  not  be  served. 
You  must  carry  your  pack." 

"You  see,"  he  began  again,  "the  place  must  stand 
intact  while  grannie  lives.  After  that,  we  don't  know. 
But  now  —  Pete,  you  must  paint  your  pictures." 

"  Of  course ! "  But  the  response  was  wavering.  Peter 
smiled  radiantly.  "Come,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "you're 
not  going  to  make  rules  for  me,  because  it's  better 
for  the  white  man  to  bear  his  burden." 

Osmond,  too,  tried  to  smile,  and  failed  in  it. 
290 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  don't  know  but  I  am,"  he  said,  with  a  wry  face. 
"Pete,  I  want  you  to  go  in  and  conquer  —  earn  your 
fame,  earn  your  bread.  I  don't  want  you  to  depend  on 
anybody,  even  on  me." 

Peter  was  wrinkling  his  brows.  He  was  delightfully 
good-tempered,  and  money  meant  very  little  to  him 
save  as  a  useful  medium  of  which  there  was  sure  to  be 
enough.  He  had  never  regarded  it  as  a  means  of  moral 
discipline. 

"  That 's  very  awkward,"  he  said,  "  because  —  Os 
mond,  I  want  to  marry." 

"  To  marry !   You  said  she  had  given  you  up ! " 

"  Oh,  Electra ! "  That  issue  had  withdrawn  into  a  dim 
past.  "  Osmond,  I  have  spoken  to  Rose." 

"  Rose ! "  Now  again  Osmond  felt  the  blood  beating 
in  his  ears.  Was  it  the  impulse  of  fight,  he  asked  himself, 
or  another,  as  savage  ?  But  this  time  he  did  not  mean  to 
be  overborne.  Peter  was  speaking  simply  and  boyishly, 
with  a  great  sincerity. 

"  I  see  now  there  never  was  anybody  but  Rose,  from 
the  minute  we  met.  I  told  her  yesterday." 

"So  you  are  —  engaged."  Osmond  brought  out  the 
commonplace  word  with  a  cold  emphasis. 

Peter  looked  at  him,  surprised. 

"  No.  She 's  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  I  had  to 
tell  her.  But  I  've  got  to  earn  her.  If  you  knew  her  as 
I  do,  you  'd  see  that." 

Osmond's  brain  was  in  a  maze  of  longing  to  hear  what 
she  had  said,  and  with  it  a  fierce  desire  to  escape  that 
knowledge.  Also  he  was  overborne  by  a  passionate  re 
coil  from  his  own  suggestion  of  cutting  off  his  brother's 

291 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

income.  At  least  he  might  have  some  share  in  their 
happiness.  He  could  work  here  like  a  gnome  under 
ground,  delving  for  the  gold  to  deck  their  bridal.  And 
underneath  was  that  new  pain  at  the  heart :  that  earth 
pang  so  sickening  that  it  might  well  threaten  to  stop 
the  heart's  beating  altogether. 

"There  never  was  anything  like  her,"  said  Peter, 
out  of  his  new  dream.  "She  needs  happiness,  sheer 
happiness,  after  what  she  has  been  through.  That  set 
tles  it  about  living  abroad."  He  looked  up  brightly. 
"We  must  be  in  Paris." 

"You  think  she  would  wish  it?" 

"We  should  be  near  her  father,  near  headquarters. 
For  of  course  we  should  be  working  for  the  Brother 
hood." 

Osmond  turned  abruptly. 

"  I  must  get  to  hoeing,"  he  said. 

Peter  followed  him.  Something  in  the  air  struck  him 
with  a  new  timidity. 

"You  know,"  he  qualified,  when  they  were  well  into 
the  field,  "  she  has  n't  accepted  me." 

"No." 

"  I  'm  not  the  man  for  her,  in  many  ways.  Who  is  ? 
But  by  the  powers !  I  bet  I  could  make  her  happy." 

He  took  off  his  hat  to  strike  at  a  butterfly,  not  to  de 
stroy  it  but  to  prove  his  good-will,  and  Osmond,  with 
out  glancing  at  him,  knew  exactly  how  he  looked,  and 
thought  bitterly  that  to  Peter  Rose  was  only  one  of  a 
hundred  beautiful  things  that  made  the  earth  a  treasury. 
And  to  Osmond  there  was  but  one,  and  that  was  Rose. 

Peter  took  the  path  homeward,  and  Osmond  kept  on 
292 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

across  the  field.  At  the  farthest  bound,  he  stepped  over 
the  stone  wall  into  the  bordering  tangle  on  the  other 
side,  and  crossed  that  field  also  and  went  on  into  the 
pasture,  to  the  pines.  This  land  was  his,  and  the  deep 
woods,  stretching  forth  in  a  glimmering  twilight,  had 
been  in  many  moods  his  best  resort.  He  did  not  enter 
far,  but  sat  down  in  a  little  covert  where  in  spring  there 
were  delicate  flowers.  There  he  faced  himself. 

Everything  brought  its  penalty,  even  life.  This  he 
knew  at  last.  He  could  not  feed  on  what  he  called  his 
kinship  with  Rose  and  escape  the  suffering  from  a  bond 
unfulfilled.  Instead  of  halting  outside  the  garden  of 
being,  smelling  its  fragrance  and  thankful  for  a  breath, 
he  was  inside  with  other  men  who  owned  the  garden 
and  felt  free  to  eat  the  fruit.  He  had  never  really  been 
outside  the  garden  at  all.  He  had  merely  been  turning 
away  from  the  blossoming  trees,  denying  himself  the 
certainty  of  what  the  fruit  might  be,  working  carefully 
about  the  roots  and  learning  the  unseeing  patience  of 
the  earthworm.  And  the  one  flower  had  bloomed  in  the 
garden  at  last,  so  sweet  he  could  not  ignore  it,  so  white 
it  lighted  the  air  like  a  lamp  that  was  stronger  than  the 
sun.  He  had  bade  himself  never  to  forget  that  he  was 
not  like  other  men ;  but  he  was  exactly  like  other  men, 
for  he  loved  a  woman. 

As  he  sat  there,  overcome  by  this  conviction  of  the 
tyranny  of  the  universe,  one  thought  pierced  him  like 
the  light  of  stars.  He  could  have  made  her  happy.  A 
sweet  exultancy  told  him  that  her  nature  turned  to  him 
as  irrevocably  as  the  needle  to  the  north.  He  could 
sway  and  dominate  her.  He  could  comfort  her  with  the 

293 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

unconsidered  tenderness  that,  when  he  thought  of  her, 
came  with  his  breath.  As  by  a  revelation  he  understood 
what  she  had  meant  when  she  told  him  how  love  had 
been  her  waiting  dream.  In  a  passion  of  sympathy  he 
saw  her  trailing  through  sad  undergrowths  in  pursuit  of 
that  luring  light  —  now  stumbling  in  the  bog  of  earthy 
desires  other  hands  had  led  her  to,  now  pricked  by 
thorns  of  disappointment,  but  never  for  a  moment 
sullied  through  that  wretched  progress;  and  when  the 
marsh  was  past,  washing  her  garments  and  her  feet 
in  the  water  of  life  —  that  unquenchable  spring  of  be 
lief  in  the  mystery.  That  was  what  it  was,  the  divine 
mystery,  the  force  that  led  through  all  appearance  to 
the  real,  through  all  false  glitter  to  the  light.  It  was 
a  heavenly  vision,  the  possibility  as  she  saw  it:  the 
rounded  life,  the  two  bound  in  a  mutual  worship,  carry 
ing  their  full  cup  carefully  to  the  altar  where  they  would 
make  their  vows.  He  saw  how  lesser  desires  could  be 
wiped  out  by  one  pure  passion,  how  no  price  is  too 
great  to  pay  for  the  soul's  treasure,  not  so  much  the  pos 
session  of  it,  but  the  guarding  it  for  all  the  uses  of  the 
world. 

While  he  lay  there,  the  scent  of  the  pines  in  his  nostrils, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  living  through  the  progress 
of  his  completed  life  with  her.  There  was  not  only  the 
overwhelming  passion  of  it,  but  the  intimate  communion 
of  quiet  days.  She  would  turn  to  him  for  counsel  and 
for  sustenance,  as  he  would  turn  to  her.  This  would  be 
the  interchange  of  needs  and  kindnesses.  There  would 
be  funny  little  queernesses  of  the  day  to  keep  them 
laughing;  and  they  would  be  kind,  not  forgetful  in  their 

294 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

castle  of  content,  but  kind,  the  stronger  that  they  had 
multiplied  their  strength  by  union. 

And  then  settled  upon  him  again  his  wonder  at  the 
inexorability  of  things,  that  a  man  could  not  escape  the 
general  laws  because  he  willed  to  live  outside  them. 
He  was  bound  round  by  necessity.  Merely  because  he 
would  not  take  a  mate,  he  was  not  exempt  from  crying 
out  for  her.  And  as  the  day  went  on  and  the  vividness 
of  his  first  high  vision  faded,  his  mind  went  back  to 
Peter  and  the  incredible  truth  that  Peter  also  knew  he 
could  make  her  happy.  The  cloud  of  jealousy  darkened 
again,  and  he  met  earth  pangs  and  strangled  them. 
But  as  he  slew  them,  more  were  born,  and  lying  there 
in  the  fern  he  hated  his  brother  and  his  brother's  body, 
born  to  regnancy.  MacLeod,  too,  appeared  before  his 
inward  vision,  wholesome,  well-equipped,  riding  the 
earth  as  Apollo  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun.  Him,  too, 
he  hated,  and  for  Rose's  sake  longed  again  to  put  him 
away  with  his  own  hands  out  of  the  air  she  breathed. 
Spent  by  his  passions,  he  lingered  there  in  the  coolness 
of  the  unheeding  woods  while  the  afternoon  gloomed 
into  night. 

Madam  Fulton  sat  on  the  veranda,  thinking  sadly. 
She  found  herself  puzzled  by  one  thing  most  of  all. 
Several  times  a  day  she  had  asked  Billy  Stark,  "  Do  you 
really  believe  there's  anything  in  that  notion  about 
money's  being  tainted  ?  " 

"Don't  fret  yourself,"  he  counseled  her,  in  his  kind 
voice ;  but  she  would  sit  wrinkling  her  brows  and  put 
ting  the  question  again  to  herself,  if  not  to  him. 

295 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"The  trouble  is,  Billy,"  she  had  said,  this  morning, 
"I  get  so  puzzled.  It's  like  trying  to  learn  a  new  lan 
guage  when  you  're  old.  My  eyes  are  too  blurred  to  see 
the  accents.  My  ears  are  dulled.  There 's  that  girl  that 
comes  looking  like  an  angel  and  says  she's  a  sinner. 
I  thought  she  might  be  a  comfort;  but  no,  if  you  please. 
She  just  looks  Electra  in  the  face  and  says,  '  I  'm  as 
good  as  the  best,  only  I  prefer  to  do  things  in  my  own 
way.'  I  wish  Electra  had  n't  made  me  so  frightfully 
self-conscious." 

But  smile  at  it  all  she  might,  something  had  wrought 
upon  her.  She  looked  older  and  more  frail,  a  pathetic 
figure  now,  leaning  forward  in  a  ruminating  dream, 
arid  reminding  Billy  Stark,  in  a  hundred  unconsidered 
ways,  of  the  shortness  of  the  time  before  she  should  be 
gone.  His  heart  ached.  He  had  truly  loved  her  in  his 
youth,  and  afterwards,  in  other  fashions,  for  many  years. 

As  she  sat  there  in  her  daze  of  past  and  present, 
she  was  aware  that  a  tall  white  figure  stood  before  her 
in  the  sun.  She  recalled  herself  with  a  start  from  those 
never-to-be-explored  bounds,  and  came  awake,  hu 
morously  frightened  at  the  thought  that  here,  judging 
from  the  height  and  whiteness,  was  an  angel  come  to 
make  remarks  upon  tainted  money.  But  it  was  only 
Electra. 

"  The  next  thing  to  it,"  said  Madam  Fulton,  with  her 
broad -awake  smile. 

"  What  did  you  say,  grandmother  ?  "  asked  Electra. 

"Nothing,  my  dear.  What  were  you  going  to  say? 
Sit  down.  You  dazzle  me  in  that  sun." 

Electra  sat  down  and  considered  how  she  should 
296 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

speak,  having  triumphant  news  to  tell.  Then,  in  the 
midst  of  her  reflection,  the  news  got  the  better  of  her. 
She  began  with  an  eloquent  throb  in  her  voice. 

"Grandmother,  I  am  going  abroad." 

"So  Peter  has  spoken,  has  he?  When  is  it  to  be?" 

"  I  am  not  going  with  Peter.  That  is  all  over." 

"Well,  you're  a  silly  girl.  You  never '11  get  such  a 
nice  boy  again.  Peter  could  make  a  woman  laugh  from 
morning  till  night,  if  she'd  have  the  sense  to  please 
him." 

"  I  am  going  for  a  year.  At  least,  I  say  a  year.  I  put 
no  limit  to  it  in  my  own  mind.  Do  you  want  to  go  with 
me,  grandmother  ?  " 

"  No,  I  'm  sure  I  don't.  If  I  go  with  anybody,  it  will 
be  Billy  Stark." 

"  Then  I  must  go  alone."  A  high  determination  ruled 
her  voice. 

"Alone!  Mercy,  Electra!  you're  a  young  woman. 
Don't  you  know  you  are  ?  " 

"I  am  glad  I  am  young,"  said  Electra.  Her  eyes 
were  shining.  "  I  shall  have  the  more  years  to  devote 
to  it." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  propose  crossing  alone  ? 
Did  you  want  to  drag  me  out  of  my  coffin  to  see  you 
landed  there  respectably?" 

"I  am  quite  willing  to  go  alone,"  said  Electra,  still 
with  her  air  of  beatific  certainties.  "  I  shall  be  the  more 
unhampered.  You  must  stay  here  all  you  want  to, 
grandmother.  Keep  the  house  open.  Act  exactly  as  if 
it  were  yours." 

A  remembrance  of  the  time  when  she  had  thought 
297 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

the  place  not  altogether  her  own  tempered  the  warmth 
of  that  permission.  Some  severity  crept  into  her  de 
meanor,  and  Madam  Fulton,  recognizing  its  birth, 
received  it  humbly  as  no  more  than  she  had  earned. 

"When  are  you  going,  Electra?"  she  asked. 

"In  about  a  month.  Grandmother!"  Electra,  in 
her  worship  of  the  conduct  of  life,  hardly  knew  how  to 
express  strong  emotions  without  offense  to  her  finer 
instincts.  "I  don't  forget,  grandmother,"  she  hesi 
tated,  "that  I  ought  to  be  with  you." 

"Why  ought  you?" 

"  Because  —  grandmother,  have  n't  I  a  duty  to  you  ?  " 

"A  duty!"  the  old  lady  muttered.  "The  devil  fly 
away  with  it ! " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  grandmother?" 

"  I  beg  yours,  my  dear.  Never  swear  before  a  lady ! 
No,  no.  You  have  n't  any  duty  towards  me." 

"But  there  are  other  calls."  Electra  struggled  to 
find  words  that  should  not  tell  too  much.  She  ended 
lamely,  "There  are  calls  I  cannot  disregard."  There 
rose  dimly  before  her  mind  some  of  the  injunctions 
that  bid  men  leave  father  and  mother  for  the  larger 
vision. 

"There's  Billy  Stark,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a 
quickened  interest.  "  Fancy !  he 's  been  away  all  day." 

Electra  rose  and  went  in  again.  She  was  not  sensi 
tive  now  to  the  ironies  of  daily  life,  but  it  did  occur  to 
her  that  her  grandmother  was  more  excited  at  seeing 
Billy  Stark  home  after  a  day  in  town  than  by  her  own 
great  conclusion.  Electra  had  thought  solemnly  about 
the  magnitude  of  the  decision  she  was  making  when  she 

298 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

gave  up  the  care  of  grandmother  to  follow  that  larger 
call,  but  again  she  found  herself  outside  the  line  of 
recognized  triumphs.  She  had  announced  her  victory 
and  nobody  knew  it. 

Billy  Stark  had  brought  his  old  friend  a  present:  a 
box  of  the  old-fashioned  peppermints  she  liked.  She 
took  off  the  string  with  a  youthful  eagerness. 

"My  dear,"  said  she,  "what  do  you  think  has  hap 
pened  now?" 

"  I  know  what  has  happened  to  me,"  said  Billy.  He 
threw  himself  into  a  chair  with  an  explosive  sigh,  half 
heat  and  half  regret.  "I've  had  business  letters.  I've 
got  to  be  off." 

"Off!"  She  regarded  him  in  a  frank  dismay.  "Billy, 
you  break  my  heart!" 

"  I  break  my  own  heart,"  said  Billy  gallantly.  "  I  've 
taken  my  passage.  Say  the  word,  dear  girl,  and  I'll 
take  it  for  two." 

She  looked  at  him  in  silent  trouble.  Tears  had 
dimmed  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  Billy,"  she  said  at  last,  "  this  is  the  pleasantest 
summer  I  shall  ever  have." 

"Say  the  word,"  he  admonished  her  again.  "We've 
got  more  summers  before  us." 

She  smiled  at  him,  and  winked  away  the  tears. 

"Then  come  back  and  spend  them  here.  Electra's 
going,  too,  —  like  a  stowaway.  You  won't  let  her  cross 
with  you,  and  see  at  least  that  she  does  n't  hold  services 
on  board  ? " 

"God  forbid!"  said  Billy.  "I'm  afraid  of  her." 

"I  don't  blame  you.  Billy,  I  suppose  we  ought  to  be 
299 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

saying  solemn  things  to  each  other,  if  you're%  really 
going." 

"  Clip  ahead,  old  lady.  What  do  you  want  to  say  ?  " 

"I'd  like  to  clear  up  my  accounts  a  little.  I  want  to 
get  my  books  in  order.  I  don't  intend  to  die  in  a  fog. 
Billy,  how  much  of  it  was  real  ?  " 

"How  much  of  what,  Florrie?" 

"Of  life.  Of  the  things  we  thought  and  felt.  Is 
there  such  a  thing  as  love,  Billy  ?  " 

He  got  up  under  the  necessity  of  thought  and  stood, 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  legs  apart,  looking  over  the 
garden  beds.  He  might  have  been  gazing  out  to  sea  for 
the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

"  Florrie,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  guess  there  is." 

"Did  you  love  me,  Billy?  No  compliments.  We're 
beyond  them." 

"  Yes,"  said  Billy,  after  another  pause.  "  I  think  I  did. 
You  were  a  great  deal  to  me  at  that  time.  And  when  I 
found  it  was  no  use,  other  people  were  a  great  deal  to 
me,  one  after  another.  Several  of  'em.  I  looked  upon  it 
then  as  a  species  of  game.  But  they  did  n't  last,  Florrie. 
You  did.  You  always  give  me  a  kind  of  a  queer  feel 
ing  ;  you  're  all  mixed  up  in  my  mind  with  pink  and 
blue  and  hats  with  rosebuds  on  'em  and  college  songs." 

It  was  not  much  like  a  grand  passion,  but  it  was 
something,  the  honest  confession  of  a  boy. 

"I  thought  it  was  a  game,  too,"  she  said  musingly. 
"  Do  you  suppose  it  was,  Billy  ?  Or  were  we  wrong  ?  " 

Billy  whirled  about  and  faced  her. 

"Dead  wrong!  No,  Florrie,  it  never  was  meant  for 
a  game.  It 's  earnest.  The  ones  that  take  it  so  are  the 

300 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

ones  that  inherit  the  earth.  No,  not  that  —  but  they  go 
in  for  all  they're  worth  and  they've  something  left  to 
show  for  it.  They  don't  put  their  money  into  tinsel  and 
see  it  fade." 

"  Well,  what  else  ?  Did  Charlie  Grant  love  me  ?  " 

"Yes.   No  doubt  of  it." 

"  But  he  loved  Bessie  afterwards." 

"Yes.  She  lived  the  thing  through  with  him.  She 
built  up  something,  I  fancy.  He  probably  remembered 
you  as  I  did,  all  pink  ribbons  and  fluff;  but  she  helped 
him  rear  his  house  of  life." 

"And  my  husband  did  n't  love  me  and  I  did  n't  love 
my  husband,"  the  old  lady  mused.  "Well,  Billy,  it's 
almost  the  end  of  the  play.  I  wish  I  understood  it  better. 
And  I  've  written  a  naughty  book,  and  I  'm  going  to  be 
comfortable  on  the  money  from  it.  And  you  wish  I 
had  n't,  don't  you  ?  " 

He  saw  how  frail  she  looked  and  answered  merci 
fully, - 

"  I  don't  care  much  about  the  book,  dear.  Don't  let 's 
talk  of  that." 

"You  wish  I  had  n't  written  it!" 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  been  so  infernally  bored  as  to 
think  of  writing  it." 

"  And  I  '11  bet  a  dollar  you  wish  you  'd  come  back  and 
found  me  reconciled  to  life  and  death,  and  reading  daily 
texts  out  of  little  pious  books,  and  knitting  mufflers  for 
sailors,  instead  of  seething  with  all  sorts  of  untimely 
devilishnesses.  Don't  you,  Billy  ?  " 

What  Billy  thought  he  would  not  tell  himself,  and 
he  said  with  an  extreme  honesty,  — 

301 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"  You  're  the  greatest  old  girl  there  is,  Florrie,  or  ever 
was,  or  ever  will  be." 

"Ah,  well!"  she  sighed,  and  laughed  a  little.  "I 
can't  help  wishing  there  were  n't  so  many  good  folks. 
It  makes  me  uncommonly  lonesome.  For  you  're  good, 
too,  Billy,  you  sinner,  you ! " 

He  read  the  gleam  in  her  eyes,  the  reckless  courage, 
the  unquenched  love  of  life;  after  all,  there  was  more 
youth  in  her  still  than  there  had  ever  been  in  him  or 
in  a  hundred  like  him.  He  laughed,  and  said,  — 

"Oh,  I  do  delight  in  you!" 


XXIV 

IT  was  the  early  twilight,  and  MacLeod  was  going 
to  Electra  to  say  good-by.  But  first  he  tapped  at 
Rose's  door.  He  had  seen  her  from  time  to  time  through 
the  day,  and  nothing  of  significance  had  passed  between 
them.  That  unbroken  level  had  been  exciting  to  her. 
She  knew  he  had  things  to  say,  and  that  he  would 
not  go  leaving  them  unspoken;  delay  was  only  the 
withholding  of  bad  news.  Now  she  came  to  the  door, 
a  fan  in  her  hand  and  the  summer  night  reasonably 
accounting  for  the  breathlessness  she  felt.  Her  pallor 
made  a  white  spot  in  the  dusk;  she  was  like  a  ghost, 
with  all  the  life  drained  out  of  her.  MacLeod  stepped 
inside  and  closed  the  door. 

"Hot!"  he  breathed,  taking  a  place  by  the  window. 

She  could  not  quite  compose  herself,  and  stood  near 
him,  fanning  him  to  give  herself  a  pretext  for  movement. 
MacLeod  looked  up  at  her,  smiling.  He  saw  how  pale 
she  was. 

"Why,"  he  said,  with  his  beguiling  kindliness,  "you 
must  n't  look  as  if  you  were  afraid  of  me." 

She  moved  a  little,  to  escape  his  eyes. 

"No,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "I  don't  mean  to  be 
afraid.  But  I  am." 

"What  of,  Rose?" 

She  wanted  to  say,  from  her  confused  suspicions, 
that  he  was  inevitably  contemplating  some  course  that 
would  involve  her  freedom.  But  he  had  turned,  and 

303 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

was  looking  at  her  in  a  smiling  candor.  There  was 
evidently  no  more  guile  in  him  than  in  the  impartial 
and  cherishing  sun. 

"  I  wish  life  did  n't  present  itself  to  you  as  a  melo 
drama,"  he  volunteered,  with  almost  a  brightness  of 
reproach. 

She  shook  her  head.  The  tremulous  expectancy  of 
her  face  remained  unchanged. 

"I  wish  so,  too,"  she  answered. 

"Well!"  He  spoke  robustly,  with  a  quick  decision. 
"I'm  going  back.  I  shall  sail  next  week." 

She  drew  a  quick  breath.  Ready  as  she  was  to  disbe 
lieve  him,  it  was  impossible  to  deny  herself  an  unrea 
sonable  relief.  She  held  herself  rigid  with  anticipation, 
knowing  what  the  next  words  would  be,  and  how  he 
would  command  or  entreat  her  also  to  go.  But  they 
amazed  her. 

"Rose,"  said  he,  "this  may  be  the  last  little  talk  we 
have  together  here.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  your 
mother." 

"My  mother!"  Unconsciously  she  drew  nearer 
him.  Her  mother  was  —  what  ?  A  banished  dream, 
not  forgotten,  but  relegated  to  dim  tapestried  cham 
bers  because  the  air  of  the  present  seemed  to  blur  out 
memory  by  excess  of  light.  She  had  awakened  from 
her  girlhood's  dreams;  to  them,  chiefly,  her  mother 
had  belonged.  Now  that  past  beneficence  was  a  faded 
flower  found  in  a  casket,  a  scent  of  beauty  touched  by 
time. 

"Sit  down,"  said  MacLeod,  and  she  obeyed  him. 
He  stretched  out  his  legs  at  ease,  and  put  his  head 

304 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

back,  his  eyes  closed,  in  an  easy  contemplation.  "We 
don't  speak  of  her  very  often,  do  we,  little  girl?" 

"No!"  Her  irrepressible  comment  was,  "I  thought 
you  had  forgotten  her." 

But  he  continued,  — 

"I  was  thinking  the  other  day  how  much  you  lose 
in  not  having  known  her  as  she  was  when  I  met  her 
first." 

"I  have  the  miniature." 

"I  know.  But  that's  only  a  suggestion.  It  doesn't 
help  me  bring  her  to  life  for  you.  She  had  beauty  — 
not  so  much  as  you  have  —  and  an  extraordinary  grace 
and  charm.  She  had,  too,  that  something  we  trace 
back  to  breeding." 

He  had  always  undervalued  the  virtues  claimed  by 
gentle  birth,  and  she  looked  at  him,  amazed.  He  under 
stood,  and  laughed  a  little.  His  best  weapon  against 
the  aristocrat  had  been  tolerance,  at  its  mildest,  or  a 
gentle  scorn.  Where  a  mob  threw  eggs,  he  tossed  a 
rounded  epithet. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "you  think  I  laugh  at  breeding. 
Not  in  her.  She  had  its  rarest  virtues.  She  was  like 
an  old  portrait  come  to  life.  She  could  n't  think  of 
her  own  advantage.  She  could  n't  lie.  Ah,  well !  well !" 

He  seemed  to  be  musing  over  the  sadness  of  things 
begun  and  ended  all  too  soon,  over  a  light  quenched, 
a  glory  gone.  Rose  found  herself  passionately  anxious 
to  hear  more.  He  had  brought  her  a  jewel,  a  part  of 
her  heritage ;  she  might  have  seen  it,  but  without  know 
ing  how  bright  it  was.  She  was  acquiescing,  too,  in 
the  old  spell  of  his  kindness,  but  never,  it  seemed  to 

305 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

her,  so  beguilingly  administered :  for  he  had  come,  like 
a  herald  accredited  by  an  impeccable  authority  —  the 
talisman  of  her  mother's  name.  He  was,  she  thought 
from  his  voice,  gently  amused,  even  smiling  a  little  to 
himself. 

"You  see,  Rose,  your  mother  made  a  bad  match. 
Her  people,  the  few  there  were,  repudiated  her.  I  had 
no  qualifications.  I  was  a  poor  scribbler,  too  big,  too 
robust,  too  everything  to  suit  them.  I  breathed  up  all 
the  air.  I  just  went  into  their  stained-glass  seclusions 
and  carried  her  off.  They  never  forgave  me." 

"Her  father  died  very  soon  ?  "  She  had  never  referred 
to  the  two  old  people  as  her  grandparents.  She  found, 
in  her  emotional  treasury,  no  right  to  them,  even  as 
a  memory.  This  hesitating  question,  indeed,  seemed  a 
liberty,  as  it  subtly  brought  them  nearer. 

"Yes.  Your  mother  was  prostrated  by  that.  She 
had  a  strong  sense  of  family  feeling." 

Immediately  Rose  pictured  to  herself  the  wonder 
of  having  such  clinging  tendrils,  to  aspire  upward,  and 
such  filaments  of  root,  to  mingle  with  kindred  roots 
in  a  tended  ground.  Until  now  it  had  seemed  to  her 
brave  and  desirable  to  walk  alone  without  inherited 
ties,  the  cool  wind  breathing  about  her,  unchecked  by 
walls  of  old  restraint.  Now,  whether  he  was  gently 
guiding  her  thoughts  toward  his  desired  ends,  or 
whether  some  actual  hunger  in  her  was  impelling  them 
to  seek  lost  possibilities,  she  did  not  know;  but  she  was 
sad.  She  wanted  the  spacious  boughs  of  a  tree  of  family 
life  to  sit  under,  to  play  there  and  rest.  He  was  con 
tinuing,  — 

306 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Above  all,  your  mother  was  a  woman  of  great  loy 
alties,  not  only  to  individuals  but  to  her  inherited  pride. 
You  know  that  threadbare  phrase,  noblesse  oblige?  I 
can  laugh  when  most  of  them  use  it.  I  never  laughed 
when  I  saw  her  cutting  her  conduct  by  it." 

"I  never  knew — "  She  was  about  to  say,  in  her 
glowing  surprise,  that  she  never  knew  he  cared  so  much 
for  her  mother,  or  that  he  had  been  cherishing  such 
memories. 

"That's  the  reason,  my  dear,"  he  was  saying  now, 
"why  you  must  model  yourself  on  her,  and  not  on  me. 
I  don't  know  that  you  ever  had  the  least  desire  to  model 
yourself  on  me,  but  I  feel  very  strongly  about  your 
knowing  what  kind  of  woman  she  was  and  letting  her 
—  well,  letting  her  decide  things  for  you." 

"I  wish" —  All  sorts  of  longings  were  choking  her 
and  crying  for  expression;  but  she  could  only  finish, 
"I  wish  she  had  not  died." 

"Yes,  child.  Now  these  people  here,  Rose,"  —  his 
voice  had  changed  into  a  decisive  affirmation,  —  "they 
are  a  good  sort,  very  gentle,  very  well  worth  your  meet 
ing  them  with  fairness.  You  have  n't  met  them  fairly. 
Now,  have  you  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  She  was  trembling,  not  so 
much  under  his  words  as  from  her  own  dreary  shame. 
The  shame  had  been  with  her  all  day,  until  she  was 
tired  with  it,  and  the  words  seemed  to  be  little  sepa 
rate  floutings  to  make  the  burden  heavier. 

"Electra  called  you  an  adventuress.  She  had  every 
right  to." 

"Yes.  She  had  every  right  to."  But  Rose  spoke 
307 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

with  the  unreasoning  bitterness  of  youth  that,  finding 
itself  in  the  wrong  path,  is  sure  the  way,  once  entered, 
has  no  turning. 

"She  says  you  came  here  with  a  lie  on  your  lips. 
Isn't  that  true?" 

"But  you  told  me"  —  She  was  seeking  to  get  back 
her  lost  self,  the  one  that  still  believed  in  its  own  integ 
rity.  "I  did  n't  choose  to  lead  the  life  she  thinks  I  led. 
You  told  me  it  was  the  noblest  thing  to  do." 

" Ah !"  He  took  the  words  out  of  her  mouth.  "I  did. 
But  did  you  make  your  stand  magnificently  and  face 
the  conventions  you  defied  ?  No !  you  came  here  and 
told  a  lie.  You  chose  the  cheapest  part  you  could,  and 
played  it." 

His  righteous  anger  was  sweeping  her  away.  Every 
thing  helped  him,  even  her  own  sad  sense  of  inexorable 
destiny  and  her  poor  desert. 

"You  have  taken  a  very  unfortunate  step,  child,"  he 
was  saying,  "You  came  here  on  a  questionable  errand. 
Now  you  have  owned  up  to  these  people.  They  know 
what  you  are." 

"Oh!"  She  threw  out  her  hands  at  the  horror  of  it. 
Until  now  she  had  not  seen  herself  as  she  must  be,  even 
in  Electra's  eyes.  His  way  of  presenting  things  made 
them  intolerably  vivid. 

"But  they  —  they  will  not — "  She  quivered  before 
him,  and  seemed  to  crouch  and  lessen. 

"They  won't  tell?  I  don't  feel  sure  of  that.  But  do 
you  want  to  trade  on  their  not  telling?  Such  things 
are  always  known." 

"Well,  I  have  done  wrong.   I  must  suffer  for  it." 
308 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Who  suffers?  You  —  and  I.  The  blow  to  me  is 
incalculable.  I  don't  understand  it.  Your  mother's 
memory  —  that  should  have  kept  you  straight.  So  far, 
child  —  why,  you're  a  liar." 

She  was,  she  told  herself,  the  tears  streaming  over 
her  face.  The  happy  certainties  she  had  felt  with 
Osmond  withdrew  into  a  vague  distance.  At  last  she 
understood ;  she  had  sinned,  and  she  was  not  forgiven. 

"Now!"  said  MacLeod.  His  voice  had  a  ring  she 
knew.  "Now,  we  must  consider  what  is  to  be  done. 
One  thing  I  have  done  already.  I  have  taken  passage 
for  you.  I  will  stand  by  you  if  you  go  back  to  France. 
I  won't  support  you  here.  Nor  shall  they.  Think  what 
you  did.  A  cheap  adventuress  could  do  no  more,  except 
persist  in  it."  He  was  all  breathing  indignation. 

"Do  you  mean" —  Her  voice  broke.  "Do  you  mean 
to  take  me  back  to  him?" 

"The  prince?  By  no  means.  I  mean  to  take  you 
back  to  work,  to  be  good  and  clean  and  honest.  You 
must  retrieve  this  step.  You  shall  be  independent  of  me, 
if  you  like.  You  shall  sing.  My  dear  daughter,  you 
may  not  think  I  have  shown  you  much  affection,  — 
but  your  honor  is  very  dear  to  me."  He  looked  nobly 
sincere,  and  yet  she  bent  her  brows  upon  him,  and 
tried  to  read  a  deeper  soul  than  he  displayed. 

"Father!"  The  word  was  wrung  from  her.  She 
had  not  willingly  called  him  by  it  for  the  two  years 
past.  "You  have  persuaded  me  before.  How  can  I 
believe  you  ?" 

A  melting  change  came  over  him.  It  was  evident 
in  his  voice,  his  suffused  look,  his  whole  manner. 

309 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"My  child,"  said  he,  "can't  you  believe  I  loved 
your  mother  ?  " 

Immediately  the  tides  of  her  filial  being  were  with 
him.  If  she  denied  him,  she  must  hurt  something  to 
which  her  very  blood  bade  her  be  faithful.  The  house 
of  life,  the  father,  mother,  and  their  child,  —  these 
were  the  sacred  three,  and  it  might  be  her  high  emprise 
to  keep  their  union  holy. 

"Can  you  be  ready  to-morrow?"  he  asked,  with 
that  emphasis  his  followers  knew.  "You  will  stay  in 
town  with  me  until  we  sail." 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  be  ready?" 

"I  will  be  ready." 

He  got  up  and  bent  to  kiss  her  forehead.  But  she 
retreated. 

"No,"  she  breathed.  "I'll  do  it,  father,  but  don't 
be  kind  to  me." 

He  gave  her  a  little  pat  on  the  shoulder,  and  a  reas 
suring,  "Nonsense!  I'm  always  kind.  We'll  have 
famous  times  yet,  my  dear." 

She  stood  droopingly  while  his  steps  went  down  the 
stairs  and  out  through  the  veranda  and  ceased  upon 
the  grass.  Then  she  opened  her  door  and  crossed  the 
hall  to  grannie's  room  and  tapped. 

"Come  in,"  called  the  kind  old  voice.  Grannie  was 
in  bed,  a  candle  by  her,  a  book  in  her  hand.  She  looked, 
in  her  nightcap,  like  a  beautiful  old  baby.  "I  had  to 
crawl  in  here,"  she  said  apologetically.  "I  get  so  stiff 
sitting  about.  But  I  don't  want  to  sleep.  Draw  up  the 
rocking-chair." 

310 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Rose  went  up  to  the  bedside,  and  dropped  upon  her 
knees,  looking  up  so  that  the  light  could  strike  her  face. 
It  was  a  wretched  face,  but  she  tried  to  keep  it  calm 
lest  it  should  plead  for  her. 

"My  father  is  going  to  take  me  away,"  she  began. 
"I  must  pack  to-night.  But  I  want  to  tell  you — " 

"Take  you  away?  where?"  asked  grannie. 

"To  France." 

"Why,  I  don't  like  that!" 

Rose  continued,  — 

"I  am  not  a  good  woman.  My  father  has  told  me 
so.  He  has  shown  me.  I  believe  it." 

"I  guess  you're  tired,"  said  grannie.  She  laid  a 
motherly  hand  on  the  girl's  forehead.  Then  she 
smoothed  her  hair,  and  tucked  a  lock  behind  her  ear. 
"I  guess  I  would  n't  say  such  things." 

"I  was  never  married  to  Tom  Fulton.  I  thought  it 
was  right  not  to  be.  But  I  came  here  and  called  myself 
his  wife.  I  am  an  adventuress.  My  father  says  so." 

The  old  lady  sat  looking  at  her  with  a  puzzled  glance. 

"You  blow  out  the  candle,"  she  said  then.  "It 
makes  it  kind  of  hot.  Now  I'll  move  over,  and  you 
climb  up  here  and  lie  down  a  spell.  I  guess  it'll  rest 
you." 

Rose  put  out  the  candle,  and  breathed  her  relief  now 
that  even  that  light  was  off  her  tortured  face.  Then 
she  did  stretch  herself  on  the  bed,  and  grannie  put  out 
a  hand  and  held  hers. 

"T  won't  hurt  your  skirt,  will  it?"  she  asked. 
"You've  got  such  pretty  clothes.  I  should  n't  want 
to  have  'em  tumbled." 

311 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Rose  spoke  again  with  her  insistent  haste,  — 

"I  am  an  adventuress." 

"There!  there!  don't  say  that.  It's  a  miserable  kind 
of  a  word.  Did  your  father  come  here  to  take  you 
back?" 

"I  don't  know  why  he  came  —  not  entirely.  But  he 
tells  me  to  go  with  him.  I  must  go." 

"Do  you  want  to  go,  dear?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  they  both  listened  to 
the  sounds  of  the  summer  night. 

"I  want  to  be  honest,"  Rose  said  at  last.  "It  is  too 
late  —  but  I  must  do  the  best  I  can." 

"It  is  n't  ever  too  late,"  said  grannie.  "But  I  don't 
seem  to  want  you  to  go.  I'm  fond  of  you,  dear."  Rose 
lifted  the  cherishing  hand  to  her  lips.  "Peter  is  fond 
of  you,  too.  He  told  me  so  to-day.  It  is  all  over  between 
him  and  Electra.  He  told  you  that?" 

"Dear  Peter!  But  after  this"  —  she  was  quivering 
with  impatience  to  put  that  test  —  "you  would  n't  be 
willing  to  have  him  like  me  —  after  this  ?  " 

Now  grannie  was  silent,  but  only  because  she  was 
thinking.  The  tightening  clasp  of  her  hand  made  that 
evident. 

0 

"My  dear,"  she  said  at  last,  in  her  soft  old  voice, 
"you  can't  imagine  how  stupid  I  am.  I  never  know 
how  to  say  things  right.  But  if  it  was  a  transgression  — 
I  suppose  you'd  say  it  was  — " 

Honesty  rose  up  in  the  girl,  and  cried  to  be  heard. 

"I  thought  it  was  right,"  she  protested  sharply.  "I 
did  think  it  was  right.  About  coming  here  I  did  n't 
think  much,  except  that  I  was  lonesome  and  afraid. 

312 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Now  I  understand.  I  must  pay  my  penalties.  I  must 
be  honest.  It  is  too  late,  —  but  it's  all  I  can  do." 

" You  see,  about  transgressions,"  said  grannie,  "why, 
they  're  not  to  be  thought  of,  my  dear,  not  for  an  instant 
after  we  are  sorry.  We've  just  taken  the  wrong  road, 
that's  all.  We've  got  to  clip  it  back  into  the  right  one. 
We  can't  sit  down  to  cry." 

"We've  got  to  take  our  punishment!" 

"Yes,  mercy,  yes!  I  guess  we  have.  But  we've  got 
to  be  happy,  too.  The  punishments  were  given  us 
in  love.  We've  got  to  be  thankful  for  'em.  Now,  do 
you  feel  as  if  't  was  right  for  you  to  go  back  with  your 
father?" 

"There  are  hard  things  there.  I  ran  away  from 
them.  I  must  face  them." 

"Then  you  go,  dear,"  said  grannie.  "But  don't  you 
forget  for  one  minute  that  there's  the  love  of  God. 
Peter  and  I  love  you,  too.  And  when  all  the  things  are 
done,  you  hurry  right  back  here,  and  we  shall  be  here 
—  some  of  us,  anyway  —  and  your  room  '11  be  ready 
for  you  just  the  same." 

Rose  lay  there  with  the  ineffable  sense  upon  her  of 
that  readjusted  balance  which  we  call  forgiveness.  Life, 
even  the  narrow  piece  of  it  she  was  touching,  greatened 
with  possibilities. 

"Grannie,"  she  said,  "there's  one  thing  more." 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"I  want  to  leave  a  message  with  you.  I  want  you  to 
tell  Osmond  something." 

"Why,  honey,  do  you  know  Osmond?" 

"Yes,  I  know  him."  Then  she  rehearsed  the  bare 
313 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

details  of  their  meetings,  and  finishing,  said,  quite 
simply,  "I  can't  see  him.  I  can't  say  good-by.  If  I 
spoke  to  him,  how  could  I  bear  to  go  ?  But  it 's  he  who 
really  sends  me." 

"What  do  you  mean,  dear?" 

"I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you.  Only,  he  is  so  true 
he  makes  me  want  to  be  true,  too.  He  wants  to  do  the 
hardest  thing.  This  is  the  hardest  thing  for  me.  And 
I  want  to  go  and  be  honest,  not  stay  and  have  you  all 
make  it  easy  for  me  to  be  honest.  And  I  want  to  prove 
myself,  to  use  my  voice.  I  don't  intend  to  be  supported 
by  my  father.  But  when  I  have  established  myself,  I 
shall  come  back." 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  talking  to  Osmond  himself, 
and  as  if  his  idea  of  great  world  spaces  and  inevitable 
meetings  made  it  certain  for  them  to  part  without 
loss. 

Grannie  was  thinking.   She  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Rose. 

"Osmond  likes  you  very  much,  does  n't  he?"  asked 
the  old  lady. 

"It  is  n't  exactly  liking.  We  understand  each  other. 
He  is  different  from  anybody." 

"Yes." 

"He  understands  me  almost  before  I  speak.  It  is 
comfortable  to  be  with  him." 

"Yes.  And  the  boy  finds  it  comfortable  to  be  with 
you." 

"Oh,  yes!  It  is  because  it  is  so  exactly  alike  for  us 
both.  That  is  why  we  are  so  contented  together." 

"He  will  miss  you  when  you  are  gone." 
314 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Oh,  but  not  as  I  shall  miss  him!  He  is  so  sure  of 
things.  He  knows  so  well  when  the  cord  between  us  is 
holding.  But  I  shall  doubt.  I  shall  want  to  hear  his 
voice." 

Grannie  sighed  again.  She  was  a  happy  old  woman 
in  her  certainties;  but  sometimes  she  felt  tired,  with  the 
gentle  lassitude  of  the  old.  She  had  been  with  Osmond 
through  every  step  of  his  difficult  way,  and  she  had 
hoped  some  tragedies  would  be  spared  them  both. 
Much  as  she  believed  in  ultimate  good  fortune,  she  had 
to  shrink  from  his  desiring  woman's  love.  Yet  this 
was  to  be.  A  little  jealous  doubt  of  the  girl  crept  into 
her  troubled  heart.  Was  she  light  of  love,  a  lady  of 
enchantments  who  could  appear  out  of  nowhere  and 
make  all  these  strange  happenings  seem  common 
place  until  her  fickle  destiny  should  snatch  her  away 
again,  leaving  hurt  and  mourning  hearts  behind  ? 
Grannie  was  humbly  conscious  that  there  were  many 
things  outside  her  world,  exotic  flowers  of  life  her  up 
land  pastures  did  not  breed.  That  they  were  poison 
flowers  she  could  not  well  believe;  but  when  her  dear 
boy  tasted  the  essence  of  them,  she  had  to  pause  and 
sternly  think  it  over,  whether  it  was  well. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "you  must  be  honest  with 
him."  The  gentle  voice  had  steel  in  it. 

"Honest?  With  Osmond?  How  should  I  be  any 
thing  else  ?  What  reason  —  why,  grannie !" 

"Osmond  is  not  like  other  men." 

"He  is  better.   He  is  like  a  spirit." 

"No.  He  is  only  a  man  that's  had  heavy  loads  to 
carry.  You  must  n't  be  cruel  to  him." 

315 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Grannie,  I  never  heard  you  speak  like  that.  You 
have  been  so  kind." 

"I  am  kind  now,  but  Osmond  is  my  boy.  Do  you 
feel  to  him  as  you  did  to  Tom  Fulton  ? " 

"Oh!"  It  was  a  cry  of  pain.  "What  has  Tom  Fulton 
to  do  with  it,  to  do  with  me?"  the  girl  asked,  in  that 
hurt  surprise.  "All  I  want  is  to  forget  him.  He  made 
himself  beautiful  to  me  because  he  lied  to  me.  The 
things  I  loved  he  said  he  loved  —  and  then  he  laughed 
at  them.  But  Osmond  —  what  has  Osmond  to  do  with 
Tom  Fulton?" 

"You  have  made  Osmond  love  you,"  said  grannie. 
"That's  all." 

The  chamber  was  very  still.  Rose  could  hear  the 
ticking  of  grannie's  watch  beside  her  on  the  stand. 
Presently  she  spoke  in  a  wondering  tone. 

"Love  me?   Grannie,  is  it  that?" 

"What  did  you  think  it  was?" 

"I  did  n't  think.  I  thought  it  was  something  greater." 

"There  is  nothing  greater,  Rose.  Is  there  anything 
more  terrible?" 

The  girl  turned  her  face  over,  and  dropped  it  for 
a  minute  on  the  hollow  of  the  old  woman's  arm.  Then 
she  spoke,  and  to  grannie's  amazement  she  laughed 
a  little,  too. 

"Oh,  I  never  dreamed  I  could  be  so  happy!" 

"Happy!   But  is  he  happy ?" 

"He  must  be,  if  he  knows  it.  Do  you  think  he  knows 
it,  grannie  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  he  does,  my  dear,"  said  grannie  sadly. 

"Has  he  told  you  so?" 

316 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Not  a  word." 

"If  he  does,  tell  me,  grannie.  Betray  him.  I  need 
to  know  everything  he  knows  —  everything." 

It  was  a  new  Rose,  one  none  of  them  in  America 
had  yet  seen.  There  were  tumultuous  yearnings  in  her 
voice,  innocent  insistencies ;  she  seemed  to  be  clamoring 
for  life,  the  boon  that  it  was  right  and  sweet  for  her  to 
have. 

"He  doesn't  speak  of  you,"  said  grannie.  "What 
could  come  of  it,  if  he  did  ? " 

"What  could  come  of  it?  Everything  could  come 
of  it.  I  shall  write  him  by  every  mail.  Tell  him  that. 
I  will  write  him  all  my  life,  every  minute  of  it  from 
morning  till  night.  And  I  will  come  back,  soon,  soon, 
—  as  soon  as  I  have  earned  money  to  be  honest  on. 
Tell  him  that,  grannie." 

But  grannie  sighed. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  not  very  reasonable,"  she 
said.  "And  I  should  n't  dare  to  give  him  such  messages. 
How  do  I  know  what  they  would  mean  to  him  ?  Why, 
my  dear,  you  may  meet  some  young  man  to-morrow, 
any  day.  You  may  want  to  marry  him.  What  do  you 
think  Osmond  would  feel,  if  you  wrote  and  told  him 
that?" 

"Why,"  said  Rose,  in  a  pained  surprise,  "you 
have  n't  understood,  after  all.  But  he  will  understand. 
No,  don't  tell  him  anything,  grannie,  only  that  I'll 
write  to  him  every  mail  and  that  I  shall  come  home. 
He  will  believe  me.  Now  I  must  go  and  pack." 

But  grannie  held  her  anxiously. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  made  you  troubled,"  she  said. 
317 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"No,  you've  made  me  rich.  I  don't  care  what  hap 
pens  to  me  now.  I  can  face  it  all.  Dear,  dear  grannie! 
I  thank  you  for  forgiving  me."  She  kissed  the  two  kind 
hands,  and  stood  beside  the  bed  for  a  minute.  "He 
comes  to  you  in  the  morning,  does  n't  he  ?  Tell  him 
all  that  then.  Only  tell  him  I  could  n't  bear  to  say 
good-by.  But  I  shall  come  back,  and  there  will  be  wel 
comes,  not  good-bys."  She  went  softly  out,  and  grannie 
heard  the  closing  of  the  door. 

Rose,  in  her  own  room,  did  not  begin  at  once  to  pack. 
She  was  alive  again  with  the  most  brilliant  triumph 
and  delight.  Her  father's  influence  had  slipped  from 
her,  and  she  stood  there  shuddering  in  the  delicious 
cold  of  a  strong  wind  of  life.  If  she  was  to  go  forth, 
to  make  herself  whole  with  her  own  destiny,  she  was 
going,  not  as  the  puppet  of  his  will,  but  exhilarated  by 
marvels.  There  were  still  large  things  in  the  world, 
strong  loyalties,  pure  faithfulness.  She  felt  like  a  warrior 
girded  with  a  sword. 


XXV 

OSMOND  was  sitting  in  his  playhouse  under  the 
tree.  He  did  not  expect  Rose  to  come,  but  he 
had  things  to  think  about,  and  in  the  playhouse  he  never 
felt  alone.  He  was  studying  his  own  life  as  it  had  been 
and  as  it  was.  The  past  looked  to  him  all  submission 
and  a  still  endurance.  He  marveled  that  a  man  could 
live  so  long  and  not  look  man's  lot  in  the  face.  A  thou 
sand  passions  had  been  born  in  him  at  once,  and  they 
seemed  almost  equally  good  to  him  because  they  were 
all  so  strong.  He  sat  there  drunk  with  the  lust  of  power 
and  reviewing  his  desires  as,  one  by  one,  they  came  and 
smiled  upon  him. 

First  he  desired  a  woman,  the  one  woman,  Rose, 
not  now  romantically  through  the  mist  of  dreams,  but 
as  the  wild  man  wants  his  mate.  Was  that  love?  he 
asked  himself,  in  this  dispassionate  scrutiny,  and  de 
cided  that,  as  men  chose  to  name  it,  it  was  love.  They 
crowned  it  with  garlands,  they  sang  about  it  and  drank 
to  it,  but  that  was  only  to  make  it  sweeter. 

He  remembered  again  the  passion  of  protection  he 
had  felt  for  her,  the  desire  to  slay  whatever  crossed  her 
path.  That  was  hate,  he  knew,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
good.  All  these  things  were  the  forces  that  made  up 
life,  and  life  was  a  battle. 

And  then,  as  he  did  intermittently  after  every  wave 
of  thought,  he  remembered  that  Peter  was  in  love  with 
Rose,  he  recalled  the  gay  certainty  of  the  boy  when  he 

819 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

had  said  he  could  make  her  happy,  and  he  saw  her  in 
Peter's  arms.  And  this  was  jealousy. 

At  once  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  listened.  A  step 
was  coming  nearer,  heavy  and  halting,  pausing  for 
frequent  rests.  The  familiar  sound  of  it  and  the 
appeal  of  a  presence  not  yet  known  made  him  knit 
his  brows  and  peer  forward  through  the  dark.  When 
the  step  ceased  again,  for  an  interval,  he  cried  out, 
"Grannie!" 

"Why,  dear,  you  there?"  called  grannie. 

He  ran  to  her  and  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  so 
they  came  onward  to  the  chair  which  had  been  a  throne 
for  Rose.  When  she  had  sunken  into  it,  he  began  to 
scold  her  gently.  She  had  not  been  so  far  from  home 
for  many  a  day.  She  had  chosen  night  and  a  rough 
path.  Why  did  she  do  it? 

"I  had  to  see  you,  dear,"  said  grannie.  "Maybe  I 
did  n't  consider  how  hard  it  would  be,  but  when  I 
started  out,  I  wasn't  thinking  much  about  my  aches 
and  pains.  I  had  to  see  you.  So  I  just  dressed  me  and 
came." 

"But,  grannie,  it's  the  middle  of  the  night!" 

"Yes,  child,  I  suppose  it  is.  Night  or  day,  it's  all 
one.  Osmond,  her  father 's  going  to  take  her  away 
from  here." 

"Rose!" 

"Yes,  dear,  she's  going.  Do  you  think  it's  best  to 
let  her  go  with  him  ?  " 

"No!   It's  outrageous  and  impossible." 

"I  thought  you'd  say  so.  Well,  Osmond,  she  meant 
to  go  away  to-morrow  morning  without  seeing  you. 

320 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

But  she  sent  you  her  love.   It  seemed  to  me  that  .  .  . 
So  I  thought  you'd  better  have  it  to-night." 

She  heard  him  breathing  heavily,  but  he  did  not 
speak.  Once  he  walked  away  from  her  and  back 
again. 

"What  has  made  her  want  to  go?" 

"She  does  n't  want  it.  But  he  has  worked  upon  her. 
He 's  told  her  she  is  bad ;  some  dreadful  things  I  guess 
he  said.  I  don't  believe  in  that  man,  Osmond.  I  never 
did,  first  minute  I  laid  eyes  on  him." 

"No,  grannie,  he's  not  to  be  believed." 

"I  thought  maybe  you'd  better  have  the  night-time 
to  think  it  over  in.  You  may  want  to  do  something." 

"Grannie,  what  can  I  do?" 

"I  don't  know,  son.  But  you're  the  head  of  the 
house." 

Again  he  strode  away  on  his  impatient  march,  and 
grannie  waited  and  prayed  a  little,  and  thought  how  her 
knees  ached  and  how  she  hoped  God  would  help  him. 
He  was  back  again. 

"You  know  how  it  is  with  me?"  he  said  roughly. 

"Yes,  child." 

"It's  a  big  proposition." 

"It's  the  biggest  there  is,  son.  I've  just  been  telling 
her  so." 

"Rose?  What  has  Rose  said?" 

"Not  much.  Only  I  had  the  feeling,  when  I  was  with 
her,  that  she  loved  you  and  did  n't  hardly  know  about 
your  loving  her.  So  I  came  down  here." 

"You  did  right  to  come." 

Grannie  drew  a  long  breath.    The  thing  was  out  of 
321 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

her  hands,  now,  she  knew.    What  his  hands  would  do 
with  it  did  not  yet  appear.   She  rose. 

"Well,  son,"  she  said,  "I'll  go  back.  Come  with  me 
to  the  wall.  Then  I'll  manage  it  alone. " 

He  did  go  with  her,  helping  her  in  a  tender  silence, 
and  at  the  door  she  kissed  him  good-night. 

"What  time  is  breakfast,  grannie?" 

"Eight  o'clock." 

The  next  morning  when  they  had  assembled  in  the 
dining-room,  grannie,  standing  with  a  hand  on  the  back 
of  her  chair,  waited.  Her  face  had  a  flush  of  expecta 
tion.  Her  eyes  sought  the  window. 

"There !"  she  said,  "he's  coming.  Peter,  I've  moved 
your  place.  Osmond  will  sit  opposite  me." 

"Osmond!"  Peter  almost  shouted  it. 

"Yes,"  said  grannie,  in  what  seemed  pride.  "I 
thought  Osmond  would  be  here." 

Osmond  came  in,  a  workman  in  his  blouse,  fresh 
from  cold  water  and  the  night's  stern  counseling.  Rose, 
hearing  his  step,  could  not,  for  a  minute,  look  at  him, 
because  he  had  once  forbidden  it.  The  commonplace 
room,  with  the  morning  light  in  it,  swam  before  her. 
After  he  had  spoken  to  grannie,  he  walked  up  to  her 
and  offered  his  hand.  Then  their  eyes  met.  Hers  were 
full  of  tears,  and  through  their  blur,  even,  his  face 
looked  stern  and  beautiful. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,"  Osmond  said;  and  she  an 
swered,  feeling  his  kindness  as  from  some  dim  dis 
tance,  — 

"Tosaygood-by?" 

"No,  not  to  say  good-by." 
322 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Then  they  sat  down,  and  there  was  no  constraint,  but 
a  good  deal  of  talking;  and,  strangely,  it  was  Osmond 
who  led  it.  He  did  not  touch  upon  things  of  wider 
interest  than  his  own  garden  ground,  where  he  was  at 
home.  He  had  pleasant  chronicles  of  the  work  to  give 
grannie,  and  MacLeod  took  a  genial  interest.  Only 
Peter  sat,  wide-eyed  at  the  turn  things  were  taking,  and 
Rose  grew  paler  and  left  her  plate  untouched.  She 
did  not  know  whether  it  was  joy  that  moved  her,  or 
grief  at  parting  with  him.  Only  the  morning  seemed 
like  no  other  morning.  When  they  rose  from  the  table, 
Osmond  turned  at  once  to  MacLeod. 

"May  I  see  you  for  a  minute  or  two?"  he  asked. 
"We'll  go  into  the  west  room,  grannie." 

While  Peter  started  forward,  as  if  to  help  or  hinder 
as  the  case  might  be  when  he  understood  it,  Osmond 
had  led  the  way,  still  with  the  air  of  being  master  of 
the  house,  and  Rose  stood  with  downcast  eyes,  as  if 
miserably  conscious  that  the  interview  would  concern 
her.  Inside  the  west  room,  cool  in  the  morning,  and 
with  a  restful  bareness  about  it,  a  retreat  where  people 
went  to  sleep  or  read,  Osmond  turned  at  once  to  the 
man  whom,  at  that  moment,  he  delighted  in  as  a  worthy 
foe.  Osmond  had  never  known  before  the  keen,  salt 
taste  of  victory.  All  his  triumphs  up  to  this  time  had 
been  as  slow  as  the  growth  of  a  tree  that  recovers  itself 
after  lopped  branches.  Now  he  felt  the  anticipation  of 
combat. 

"We  need  n't  sit  down,"  he  said  rapidly,  yet  with 
self-possession.  He  looked  taller,  even,  MacLeod 
thought  with  wonder.  His  dark  eyes  were  full  of  fire. 

323 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"I  love  your  daughter,"  said  Osmond,  in  a  full,  steady 
voice.  He  chose  the  words  the  poets  had  taught  him 
to  use  simply,  and  also,  perhaps,  the  novels  he  had 
been  reading  since  he  had  known  Rose. 

"My  dear  fellow!"  cried  MacLeod  expansively. 
And  then,  remembering  the  peculiar  circumstances  of 
the  case,  "I'm  sorry,  devilish  sorry  for  you." 

Osmond  smiled.  He  felt  capable,  if  there  were  no 
other  way  of  doing  it,  of  wresting  the  lady's  fate  from 
evil  chances  with  his  hands.  Yet  he  liked  MacLeod  to 
resist.  It  made  the  fight  more  splendid. 

"She  must  not  go  back  with  you,"  he  said.  "You 
are  not  to  insist  on  it.  Don't  insist.  That  will  save  us 
all  trouble." 

MacLeod  had  gathered  himself  together.  He  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  meditatively  brought  out 
his  pipe,  fingering  the  case  with  an  absent  and  lingering 
interest,  as  if  he  felt  the  call  to  a  lost  rite. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said  again,  "this  is  too  bad. 
I'm  sorry." 

"Rose  will  remain  here,"  said  Osmond  briefly.  "My 
grandmother  will  take  the  kindest  care  of  her." 

"But  I  can't  allow  it,  you  know,"  said  the  father, 
still  with  tolerance.  "Rose  is  due  in  Paris.  We're  both 
due  there.  It's  very  good  of  you,  very  hospitable  and 
all  that,  —  but  you  must  n't  carry  this  Lochinvar  busi 
ness  too  far.  It's  too  rapid  a  world,  you  know.  I'm 
too  busy,  my  dear  fellow.  That's  the  truth." 

Osmond  stood  gazing  at  him  reflectively,  not  in 
doubt  or  hesitation,  but  because  he  liked  the  look  of 
so  big  an  animal,  and  considering  that  it  would  be 

324 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

charming  to  see  the  creature  yield.  Osmond  had  not 
sharpened  his  weapons  or  even  decided  what  they  were. 
He  only  knew  MacLeod  must  bend,  and  that  there 
was  in  himself  a  big,  even  an  invincible  force  to  make 
him. 

"  Rose  is  not  going,"  he  said  quietly. 

Then  MacLeod  laughed.  The  morning  was  hurrying 
by  and  this  vaporing  was  a  hindrance  to  be  shuffled  off. 
"You  say  you  love  my  daughter?"  he  remarked,  with 
a  veiled  meaning  in  the  tone.  "What  then  ?  You  don't 
propose  to  marry  her?"  The  tone  said  further,  "You 
don't  tell  me  you  propose  to  marry  anybody?" 

"I  only  said  I  loved  her,"  returned  Osmond  simply. 
"I  thought  it  would  be  well  for  you  to  know  that.  It 
seemed  fairer." 

MacLeod  smiled  again,  as  if  he  were  smiling  down  on 
something.  Osmond  opened  the  door,  knowing  where 
he  should  find  her.  She  was  there  at  the  end  of  the  hall, 
sitting  in  one  of  the  high-backed  chairs,  her  hands  in 
her  lap,  her  head  bent  sweetly  as  she  listened.  She  was 
pale,  and  there  was  terror  in  her  face.  As  Osmond 
read  that,  his  own  passion  quieted,  and  he  spoke  with 
perfect  gentleness :  — 

"Rose,  will  you  come  here?" 

She  obeyed  at  once,  and  they  three  were  in  the  room 
together  and  Osmond  had  closed  the  door.  He  put  out 
his  hand  to  her,  and  without  hesitation  she  gave  him 
hers. 

"Rose,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  telling  your  father 
you  will  not  go  back  with  him." 

Her  eyes  dilated.   Her  lips  parted  eagerly. 
325 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  have  said  I  would,"  she  began ;  but  he  forestalled 
her. 

"I  have  forbidden  it,  Rose.  I  have  told  him  I  for 
bid  it." 

His  touch  on  her  hand  seemed  to  be  leading  her, 
drawing  her  into  his  own  breast.  They  looked  at  each 
other,  and  both  forgot  the  other  presence  in  the  room. 
The  color  came  back  slowly  to  her  cheeks,  and  Os 
mond's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Answer,  dear,"  he  said,  with  the  same  gentleness. 
"Let  me  hear  you  answer." 

"Very  well,"  she  returned,  like  a  gentle  child.  "Shall 
I  go  now,  Osmond  ? " 

He  led  her  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  closed  it  after 
her.  Then  he  glanced  at  his  adversary.  MacLeod  had 
sunk  into  a  chair  and  was  sitting  astride  it,  his  chin 
bowed  upon  its  back.  He  looked  terror-stricken.  One 
hand  held  a  little  box,  and  he  was  tendering  it  to 
Osmond. 

"Open  it,"  he  gasped.  "Crush  one  in  your  handker 
chief.  Let  me  smell  it." 

Osmond  ignorantly  but  deftly  did  it,  and  held  the 
handkerchief  to  MacLeod's  face.  MacLeod  breathed 
at  it  greedily.  He  lifted  his  left  hand  as  if  it  were  half 
useless  to  him.  "Rub  it,"  he  said  savagely.  "Wring 
it  off.  Such  pain!  my  God,  such  pain!" 

In  a  moment  more  the  attack  was  over,  and  he 
looked  like  an  old  man,  inexplicably  ravaged.  Os 
mond's  question  sprang  impetuously. 

"Is  it  — excitement?" 

MacLeod  smiled  a  little  and  moistened  his  lips. 
326 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"You  think  you  did  it?"  he  suggested.  "No.  You 
did  n't  do  it.  It  comes  —  of  itself  —  like  a  thief  in 
the  night,  like  the  very  devil.  Nobody's  to  know  it. 
Understand  that." 

"Then  you  need  her  with  you!"  Osmond  broke  out, 
in  a  fresh  understanding. 

"Need  her?  need  Rose?  Get  that  out  of  your  mind. 
The  world  is  full  of  women.  She'll  go  back  with  me, 
but  not  because  I  need  her." 

He  walked  past  Osmond  and  out  through  the  empty 
hall,  and  slowly,  but  still  erect,  to  the  driveway  and 
the  road.  Osmond  stood  watching  him.  He  saw  him 
straighten  more  and  more,  and  assume  his  wonted 
carriage  though  without  its  buoyancy.  Osmond  fol 
lowed  for  a  little  distance,  but  when  MacLeod  turned 
to  look  at  him  and  then  went  on  again,  he  stepped  over 
the  wall  and  crossed  the  lot  to  his  own  plantation.  Mac 
Leod,  he  knew,  was  going  to  Electra's  for  a  last  word, 
and  for  himself,  he  had  struck  his  one  sharp,  quick  blow 
for  Rose.  She  should  have  an  interval  alone,  to  make 
her  abiding  decision  calmly,  and  when  the  moment 
came  for  MacLeod's  going,  Osmond  would  be  there 
again,  to  hearten  her. 

But  MacLeod,  when  Osmond  had  really  turned  aside, 
halted  more  and  more.  At  last  he  was  sick  with  fear  of 
that  enemy  inside  his  breast.  There  was  no  moment 
now,  he  knew,  when  he  might  not  expect  it,  tearing 
away  at  the  delicate  harmonies  within  the  gates  of  life. 
What  would  happen  when  the  pain  grew  fiercer  still? 
The  enemy  would  let  in  that  other  he  refused  to  think 
upon,  though  even  that  was  more  tolerable  than  having 

327 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

this  evil  creature  claw  at  him  when  men  could  see 
him  cringe.  And  as  life  itself  is  death  when  it  is  once 
sapped  of  power,  he  threw  up  his  head  and  strode 
on  faster.  One  step  with  the  old  vigor  and  abandon 
—  and  there  it  was  again. 


XXVI 

LATER  that  same  morning,  Peter  was  hurrying 
along  the  road,  for  the  carriage  was  due  and  Mac 
Leod  had  not  returned.  Peter  was  not  more  than 
reasonably  sorry  to  lose  his  chief,  because  he  meant  to 
follow  soon.  He  had  the  excited  sense  of  being  ready  for 
flight,  of  great  freedom  before  him  and  strength  in  his 
wings,  and  of  leaving  Osmond  and  grannie  with  regret, 
yet  happily,  for  something  untried  and  as  wonderful  as 
youth.  He  ran  along  the  road,  hat  in  hand,  in  love  with 
the  morning  breeze,  and  Electra  met  him.  She  looked 
wan,  he  saw,  and  with  an  incredulous  pang,  he  ques 
tioned  whether  she  could  be  moved  by  their  separation. 
But  he  was  glad  of  a  definite  and  hurried  question  to  ask. 

"Where  is  MacLeod?" 

A  look  like  hope  flashed  into  her  face.  She  stopped 
and  turned  half  about,  as  if  for  instant  flight  back  to 
the  house. 

"Was  he  coming  to  me?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"We  thought  he  might  be  there." 

"Did  he  say  he  was  coming?"  Her  eagerness  looked 
like  hunger  for  a  desired  good,  slipping,  by  some  chance, 
away  from  her. 

"No!  no  I  he  may  have  gone  to  the  plantation.  I'll 
run  down  there  and  find  him." 

He  hurried  on,  and  Electra,  watching  his  light,  easy 
lopes,  wished  she,  too,  were  a  man  and  running  to  find 
Markham  MacLeod. 

329 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

At  the  pasture-bars,  in  a  bed  of  roadside  fern,  Peter 
found  him.  MacLeod  lay  majestically,  stretched  at 
length,  upon  his  side,  as  if  some  one  had  disposed  him 
in  the  attitude  of  sleep.  Peter  knew.  Yet  he  stooped 
and  touched  one  of  the  beautifully  shaped  hands  with 
his  finger.  He  stood  there  a  long  time,  it  seemed  to 
him,  looking  not  at  the  figure  at  his  feet,  but  off  into 
the  morning  sky,  and  MacLeod  was  not  in  his  mind : 
only  Osmond  and  what  Osmond  had  said  about  the 
lust  for  fight.  Osmond  seemed  to  fill  the  world.  He 
had  wished  to  kill  the  man,  but  God  instead  had  killed 
him.  Yet  the  other  thing  might  have  been.  Peter 
wondered  that  he  had  not  realized  what  his  brother 
was  to  him,  and  again  that  he  had  too  often  foregone 
Osmond's  companionship,  this  summer  of  their  re 
union,  for  lesser  loyalties.  He  comprehended  him,  at 
the  moment,  with  an  exaggerated  passion  that  was  pain : 
a  gigantic  figure,  all  sacrifice,  all  patient  truthfulness, 
and,  in  its  own  bounded  life,  as  much  to  be  loved  and 
protected  as  a  woman,  and  yet  untrained  and  ready 
for  a  savage  deed.  And  all  the  time  Electra  was  advan 
cing  rapidly  toward  him  on  the  road,  aimlessly,  but, 
as  she  afterwards  believed,  drawn  by  some  premonition 
of  what  she  was  to  find.  Her  approach  broke  Peter's 
fearful  vision.  She  was  like  a  figure  walking  into  his 
dream,  and  he  hurried  toward  her,  remembering  what 
she  must  not  see.  He  motioned  to  her  harshly  with 
his  hand. 

"Go  back!  "he  called. 

But  Electra  came  inevitably  on.  Then  Peter  placed 
himself  before  her. 

330 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Something  has  happened,"  he  said  quietly,  while 
she  looked  him  in  the  face.  "Go  home." 

But  now  she  was  gazing  past  him,  and  the  figure  in 
the  bracken  caught  her  sight.  With  a  low  cry,  the  in 
articulate  sound  that  throws  suffering  woman  back  to 
her  kinship  with  the  mother  brute,  she  ran  past  him 
and  stooped  over  MacLeod;  Peter,  dull  with  feeling, 
thought  she  tried  to  raise  his  head,  and  failing  that,  she 
took  the  hand  and  nursed  it  on  her  bosom.  Peter  judged 
apathetically  that  he  had  never  really  known  Electra ; 
she  looked  now  like  a  woman  numb  with  grief  over 
a  dead  child.  Then  he  waked  himself  out  of  his  maze. 

"Don't!"  he  heard  himself  calling.  "People  will 
come." 

"Who  will  come?"  she  returned  sharply,  as  if  she 
challenged  them  all  to  show  why  this  should  not  be 
her  dead.  Then  she  wakened.  "Go!"  she  cried.  "Get 
help.  It  can't  be  true." 

"I  will  call  the  men.  We  can  get  him  home  among 
us." 

He  ran  over  the  wall  and  on  to  the  field  where  men 
were  hoeing.  When  they  had  dropped  their  work  and 
followed  him,  they  found  Electra  sitting  there  by  the 
roadside,  as  if  she  were  the  one  mourner  over  the  dead, 
and  she  did  not  rise  until  they  stooped  to  lift  him,  and 
arranged  how  he  should  be  carried.  Then  she  said  to 
Peter,  again  as  if  it  were  her  right,  — 

"Have  him  taken  to  my  house." 

Peter  stared  at  her,  but  he  remembered  Rose. 

"That  will  be  better,"  he  said;  and  added,  "but  who 
will  tell  her?" 

331 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"His  daughter?"  said  Electra,  in  her  clear  tone. 
"I  will  tell  her.  But  there  is  a  great  deal  to  do  before 
that.  She  can  wait." 

So  they  walked  along  the  road  like  a  strange  funeral 
procession,  Electra  in  front,  as  if  she  had  a  right  to 
lead.  She  turned  in  at  her  own  gate,  and  they  followed, 
and  she  walked  on  up  the  steps  and  into  the  library, 
where  they  laid  him  down.  Madam  Fulton  and  Billy 
Stark  had  gone  for  a  drive,  and  the  house,  in  its  morning 
order,  looked  as  if  it  had  been  prepared  for  the  solemnity 
of  this  entrance.  Now  Electra's  methodical  capacity 
came  into  play.  She  sent  one  man  for  the  doctor  and 
another  to  the  kitchen  for  hot  water  and  for  brandy. 
But  when  they  were  hurriedly  dispersed,  she  turned  to 
Peter  and  said,  with  a  heart-breaking  quiet,  — 

"And  yet,  he  is  dead!" 

She  sat  down  upon  the  floor  beside  the  couch  and 
laid  her  head  on  the  dead  man's  heart.  Peter  knew  it 
was  to  listen  for  a  flutter  there,  but  with  his  sensitive 
apprehension  of  all  emotion,  he  felt  also  that  she  was 
glad  to  put  her  head  upon  MacLeod's  breast.  He  was 
conscious  of  being  useless  in  his  inactivity,  but  he  could 
only  stand  and  stare  down  at  them,  the  dead  man  and 
the  mourning  woman.  Presently  Electra  got  up  and 
stood,  dry-eyed,  and  looked  at  him. 

"He  was  coming  to  me,"  she  said,  in  awe  at  the 
loneliness  of  the  event.  "I  could  n't  sleep  last  night. 
I  wish  I  had  known  a  little  more.  Instead  of  thinking 
about  him,  I  could  have  met  him.  I  could  have  been 
with  him." 

Peter  shuddered. 

332 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  am  glad  you  were  not  with  him." 

Electra  was  not  listening.  She  had  placed  her  hand 
on  the  hair  of  the  fallen  man,  tenderly  and  yet  with 
reverence. 

"He  is  splendid,  Peter,  isn't  he?"  she  said,  as  if 
she  wondered  at  life  and  its  fleeting  forms.  "He  looks 
like  a  god,  sleeping."  Some  echo  of  her  words  came 
back  to  her,  and  she  felt  a  momentary  pleasure  at  their 
sound.  Then,  very  shortly  it  seemed,  men  came,  the 
doctor  and  others  who  had  authority,  and  Electra  was 
turned  out  of  the  room. 

"Go  upstairs,"  Peter  besought  her. 

But  she  stepped  out,  bare-headed,  into  the  air. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  am  going  to  tell  his  daughter." 

"No!"  Suddenly  Peter  remembered  how  little  she 
was  fitted  to  be  a  kindly  messenger.  "No,  Electra.  I 
will  go." 

Electra  looked  at  him  in  a  calm  surprise. 

"He  would  wish  it,"  she  said.  "He  would  wish  me 
to  do  everything."  And  she  was  gone. 

Peter  went  back  into  the  room,  where  there  were 
quick  voices  and  peremptory  demands.  Markham 
MacLeod  was  being  interrogated  in  a  way  that  had 
never  befallen  him  before.  His  body  was  being  asked 
to  bear  witness  of  the  fashion  by  which  it  had  come 
to  its  dumb  estate,  wherein  it  could  not  compel  others, 
but  was  most  ruthlessly  at  their  will. 

Rose,  at  grannie's  knee,  in  a  mute  gratitude  that 
now  she  was  to  stay  here,  because  it  had  been  wonder 
fully  decreed,  saw  Electra  coming  up  the  walk.  She  ran 
to  meet  her  light-heartedly ;  in  her  flooding  delight  it 

333 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

seemed  to  her  as  if  even  Electra  might  acquiesce  in 
her  reprieve. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  they  met,  Rose  all  pleading- 
ness,  as  if  again  she  begged  Electra  to  love  her.  But 
Electra  delivered  her  news  straightway.  She  felt  like 
nothing  but  the  messenger  of  MacLeod. 

"He  is  dead,"  she  said,  with  the  utmost  quietude. 

Rose  stared  at  her. 

"Who  is  dead  ?"  she  managed  to  ask. 

"Markham  MacLeod." 

Rose  leaned  forward  and  gazed  still  in  her  face. 
She  was  well  convinced  that  this  look  was  real :  a  look 
of  hopeless  grief,  though  the  words  were  so  fantastic. 

"Electra,"  she  said  gently,  and  even  put  out  a  hand 
and  touched  her  on  the  arm.  "Electra!  What  is  it?" 

"I  have  told  you,"  said  Electra,  "he  is  dead.  We 
found  him  in  the  ferns,  Peter  and  I.  He  is  at  my 
house.  We  thought  you  ought  to  know  it." 

"Come ! "  said  Rose.  She  seized  her  hand,  and  Electra 
pulled  it  away  again,  quietly,  and  yet  as  if  it  had  no 
business  in  that  hasty  grasp.  "Let  me  go  home  with 
you." 

"If  you  wish,"  said  Electra.  "I  suppose  you  have  a 
right  to  be  there.  They  may  want  you."  And  in  silence 
they  hurried  down  the  path  together  and  out  into  the 
road.  At  Electra's  own  gate,  she  turned  to  Rose. 

"It  is  strange,  is  n't  it?"  she  said. 

"What,  Electra?" 

"That  he  could  die." 

"Electra,  he  has  not  died.  No  one  has  died."  Rose 
spoke  gently,  knowing  that  in  some  way  the  other 

334 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

woman  had  been  shocked  and  her  reason  shaken. 
"Come  into  the  house  and  we'll  find  Peter." 

But  at  the  moment  Peter  and  the  doctor  appeared 
together  in  the  doorway,  and  the  doctor  turned  to  give 
orders  to  a  servant  in  the  hall.  Peter  saw  them  and 
came  quickly  down  to  them.  It  was  apparent  to  Rose 
that  something  had  happened. 

"Tell  her,  Peter,"  said  Electra,  in  some  impatience. 
"  She  won't  believe  me.  Tell  her  he  is  dead." 

Peter  and  Rose  stood  looking  at  each  other,  she  ques 
tioning  and  he  in  sad  assent.  Then  there  crept  upon 
her  face  a  look  that  was  the  companion  to  Electra's. 
The  color  faded,  her  eyes  widened. 

"My  father?"  she  breathed,  and  Peter  nodded. 

"Yes,"  said  Electra,  as  if  she  were  astonished  at 
them  both  and  their  dull  wits,  "Markham  MacLeod 
is  dead." 

That  evening  grannie  was  in  her  own  room,  and 
Peter  and  Rose,  below,  talked  intermittently  of  that 
strange  morning. 

"It  is  incredible,  Peter,  isn't  it,"  she  began,  "for 
him  to  die  like  this?" 

He  nodded. 

"I  expected  violence,"  he  said.  "We  all  expected  it." 

"Isn't  it  strange,  too,  that  I  can't  feel  grief!  I'm 
neither  glad  nor  sorry.  I  feel  very  still." 

"The  whole  world  will  feel  grief,"  said  Peter  loyally. 

"Yes,  but  to  me  —  Peter,  it  is  just  as  if  he  were  not 
a  man,  not  something  I  had  loved,  but  a  thing  that 
was  great  to  look  at  and  had  no  soul.  It  was  like  a  tree 

335 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

falling,  or  a  huge  rock  undermined.  Don't  you  see? 
As  if  it  were  the  natural  thing,  and  there  was  no  other 
way  possible." 

She  began  to  feel  the  inexorability  of  great  revenges, 
and  to  see  that  when  a  soul  has  for  a  long  time  denied 
us  answer  in  our  needs,  we  refuse  to  believe  that  it  can 
speak.  MacLeod  had  grown  to  be  a  beautiful  spectacle 
of  the  universe,  full  of  natural  health  and  power.  Now 
that  he  had  fallen,  there  was  nothing  left.  She  had  no 
vestige  to  remember  of  those  responses  in  the  dim 
reaches  of  being  when  one  calls  and  another  answers : 
homely  loyalties,  sweet  kindnesses,  even  overlaid  by 
later  pain.  He  had  lived  what  he  called  the  natural 
life,  and  its  breath  had  failed  him  and  he  was  no  more. 
Some  time,  she  knew,  in  this  dull  brooding,  she  might 
try  to  whip  herself  up  into  an  expected  grief;  but  now, 
in  the  bare  honesty  of  the  moment,  she  accepted  the 
event  as  it  was. 

"Osmond  has  been  great,"  said  Peter. 

She  started  back  to  life. 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"Everything.  He's  been  Electra's  right-hand  man. 
I'll  run  down  to  see  him  a  minute  presently." 

He  hoped  Rose  would  send  some  word  of  apprecia 
tive  thanks.  Old  Osmond,  he  knew,  would  like  it.  But 
she  got  up  and  gave  him  her  hand,  in  her  grave  affec 
tionate  way,  and  said  good-night.  She  remembered 
how  Osmond  and  her  father  had  met  in  contest,  and 
she  knew  Osmond  would  not  seek  her  until  Markham 
MacLeod  was  wholly  gone. 


XXVII 

PETER  met  his  brother  midway  in  the  field,  and 
waited  for  him. 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  he  said. 

"No,"  said  Osmond,  "I'm  not  going  now.  Come 
back  to  the  shack." 

"You're  a  regular  night-owl,"  said  Peter,  as  they 
turned.  "When  I  don't  find  you  after  dark,  I  know 
you're  in  the  woods,  prowling.  What  makes  you?" 

"It's  a  good  place  to  think  things  out,  —  and  swear 
over  'em." 

"  What  things,  old  man  ?  You  know  I  would  n't 
tell.  Nothing  would  tempt  me  to." 

Osmond  laughed  a  little. 

"If  you  care  so  much  as  that,  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said, 
with  a  sudden  harshness  for  himself  in  retrospect. 
"I  go  into  the  woods  to  think  about  life,  my  life,  my 
difference  from  other  fellows." 

They  sat  down  on  the  bench  at  the  door,  and  a 
whippoorwill,  calling,  made  the  distance  lonely.  Peter 
had  no  answer  for  the  truth  he  had  evoked.  It  was  too 
harsh.  Only  a  woman  could  have  met  it,  and  that 
with  kisses,  not  with  words. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  abruptly,  "what  all  this 
makes  me  want?  —  this  horrible  excitement?" 

"No,  boy." 

"It  makes  me  want  to  paint.  I  want  to  paint  every 
thing  I  see:  Markham  MacLeod  lying  there  in  that 

337 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

bed  of  fern,  Rose  with  all  the  life  washed  out  of  her, 
and  you  now,  your  face  coming  out  of  the  dark.  Every 
thing 's  been  unreal  to  me  since  it  happened  —  except 
paint  —  and  you." 

"Poor  old  chap !"  said  Osmond.  But  he  fled  on  from 
that  concurrent  sympathy  to  a  dearer  plea.  "Paint, 
Pete,"  he  urged.  "Let  all  the  rest  go.  Let  MacLeod 
die.  But  you  paint." 

Peter  was  looking  at  him  now,  fascinated.  The  pale 
face  out  of  the  dark  was  all  one  glowing  life.  Peter 
wondered  at  him,  his  strength,  his  beauty.  Again  he  felt 
as  he  had  that  morning,  as  if  he  had  never  known 
his  brother,  and  as  if  it  would  pay  for  any  pains  to  com 
prehend  that  pathetic  and  yet  adventurous  soul.  Peter 
was  more  than  half  woman,  with  his  quick  percep 
tion  of  what  went  on  in  other  minds.  He  understood, 
at  that  moment,  that  the  great  adventure  of  all  is  life 
itself:  not,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  to  paint,  to  love,  but 
to  taste  all  things  with  this  richness  that  was  beginning 
to  be  Osmond's,  this  hunger  for  the  forbidden,  even, 
so  it  was  hunger.  Osmond  had  begun  to  recognize  his 
own  nature,  and  for  the  first  time  his  brother  began  to 
recognize  him. 

"Osmond,"  he  said,  in  a  wistful  eagerness,  very 
beguiling,  "whatever  you  did,  I  should  believe  in  it." 

Osmond  looked  at  him  with  that  faint  sweet  smile 
upon  his  face,  and  his  eyes  offered  hints  of  ineffable 
meanings. 

"Would  you,  boy?"  he  asked. 

Peter  went  on.  It  was  almost  like  a  woman's  con 
fession  of  her  love. 

338 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Osmond,  you  say  you  think  about  your  life  when 
you  are  alone.  What  do  you  think?" 

"I  think  it  is  full  of  passions  as  an  egg  is  of  meat. 
They  have  been  growing  while  I  ignored  them.  I  saw 
them  marching  before  me  and  round  and  round  me. 
They  thought  they  were  my  masters." 

"What  then?" 

Osmond  remembered  how  the  morning  seemed 
when  he  met  Rose  in  the  sunlight,  and  touched  her 
hand. 

"Then,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  was  their  master.  That's 
all." 

"Oh,"  said  Peter  exultingly,  "you'd  be  the  master 
in  the  end.  You're  great!" 

"Pete,"  said  Osmond  suddenly,  "is  this  death  com 
ing?" 

"Is  what  death?" 

"It's  too  queer  for  life." 

"To  sit  here  talking  like  this?" 

"No,  not  that  exactly,  but  the  sense  of  things  to  come. 
If  seems  as  if  life  was  n't  going  to  be  the  same  again, 
and  nothing  was  quite  big  enough  to  come  after  things 
as  they've  been  lately,  —  but  death,  and  that's  only 
big  enough  because  it's  unknown." 

"What  will  come?"  asked  Peter.  He  felt  at  once 
like  a  little  boy,  half  afraid,  and  afraid  of  his  fear,  yet 
with  his  brother  to  uphold  him. 

"We  won't  go  to  bed  to-night,  will  we?  We'll  sit 
here,  even  if  we  hold  our  tongues.  I  can't  go  to 
bed." 

They  did  sit  there  for  an  hour  or  so.    Peter  spoke. 
339 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"What  are  you  thinking,  old  man?" 
"Of  Rose." 

It  was  not  strange  to  Peter  to  hear  him  speak  of  her 
familiarly.    He  returned,  — 

"I've  been  thinking  of  her,  too." 


XXVIII 

THE  deed  was  over.  The  great  emotional  wave 
that  mounted,  in  Europe  and  America,  at  the 
death  of  Markham  MacLeod,  threw  its  spray  upon  this 
quiet  shore.  Letters  came  from  his  disciples  and  his 
lovers,  and  Rose,  wondering  as  she  read  them,  answered 
in  a  patient  duty.  If  a  great  man  is  one  who  moves 
things,  then  her  father  had  been  great.  He  was  bigger 
to  her  now  than  when  she  feared  him.  Though  there 
were  mutterings  afar  of  what  must  come  now  Mark- 
ham  MacLeod  was  dead,  this  country  spot  took  on  its 
old  tranquillity.  Peter  sat  in  the  garden  and  painted. 
He  seemed  to  think  of  nothing  else.  Rose  was  too  busy 
to  sit,  and  he  began  a  portrait  of  grannie ;  then  his  only 
communication  with  the  world  seemed  to  be  his  flashing 
glance  at  her  and  at  his  canvas.  Osmond,  in  the  plan 
tation,  bent  his  back  and  worked  with  the  men,  and 
no  one  knew  what  he  thought.  To  Peter  he  was  gravely 
kind,  and  Rose,  with  a  growing  emotion  that  seemed 
to  her  likely  to  become  terror  in  the  end,  realized  that 
he  had  not  sought  her. 

One  morning  while  Peter  was  in  the  garden  smoking, 
before  he  called  grannie  to  her  chair  again,  and  Rose 
was  at  the  library  table  answering  letters,  Madam 
Fulton  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Where's  Bessie  Grant?"  she  asked. 

Rose  was  at  once  on  her  feet  and  came  forward  to 
give  her  a  chair,  relieve  her  of  her  parasol,  and  stand 

341 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

beside  her  in  a  deferential  waiting  that,  for  some  reason, 
never  displeased  this  pulsating  age  with  its  memory 
ever  upon  the  habitudes  of  youth. 

"Where's  Bessie  Grant?" 

"She  will  be  in  presently.   Peter  is  painting  her." 

The  old  lady  lay  back  in  the  chair  and  gazed  at  her 
absently,  as  if  she  merely  included  her  in  a  general 
picture  of  life.  Madam  Fulton  had  changed.  Her  eyes 
were  wistful,  and  she  looked  very  frail. 

"Billy  Stark  sails  on  Saturday,"  she  volunteered,  as 
if  it  were  the  one  thing  in  her  mind. 

Grannie  came  in  at  the  moment,  and  laid  a  kindly 
hand  on  her  old  friend's  shoulder.  Rose  went  back  to 
her  chair,  and  left  them  to  their  talk,  while  she  put  up 
her  papers  before  quitting  the  room.  Madam  Fulton 
looked  at  grannie  now. 

"You've  had  your  morning  coffee,  haven't  you?" 
asked  grannie,  because  she  could  think  of  nothing  else 
to  offer. 

"Yes, I've  had  coffee,  and  I've  had  cereals.  Electra 
is  looking  after  me  with  that  kind  of  an  air,  you  know, 
as  if  I  were  a  rockbound  duty.  My  soul !  If  it  was  n't 
for  Billy  Stark,  I  should  die." 

"Poor  Electra!"  said  grannie  softly. 

"Now  what  do  you  want  to  call  her  that  for?  Why 
is  she  'poor  Electra'  because  she  chooses  to  go  round 
like  a  high  priestess  strapping  me  down  on  altars  and 
pouring  libations  of  cereals  and  cream  ?  I  could  stand 
it  if  her  heart  was  in  it,  but  it 's  miles  away.  And  Billy 
Stark  is  going." 

Grannie  only  patted  her  hand. 
342 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Well,  well!"  said  she.  "It's  been  nice  to  have  him 
here." 

"It's  been  heaven.  It's  the  only  heaven  I  shall  ever 
know." 

"We  get  a  little  mite  of  it  here  every  once  and  a 
while,"  said  grannie.  "Don't  you  think  so?" 

"No,  except  when  Billy  Stark  comes,  —  and  he  won't 
come  again.  Electra's  going,  too." 

"Abroad?" 

"Yes.  She's  going  abroad.  At  once,  it  seems.  Rose 
MacLeod!" 

Rose  looked  up  from  her  papers. 

"What  was  it  about  your  father  that  put  the  devil 
into  people?" 

Rose  answered  with  an  unsmiling  candor. 

"I  don't  know,  Madam  Fulton." 

"But  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"He  had  great  personal  power." 

"You  are  not  in  mourning  for  him?"  She  had  been 
considering  the  girl's  dress  and  its  fluttering  ribbons. 

Rose  returned  with  dignity,  — 

"I  am  not  in  mourning." 

"Well,  Electra  is.  She  has  n't  put  on  black,  but  it's 
all  over  her.  She's  perfectly  shameless.  I  asked  her 
this  morning  why  she  was  hurrying  her  sailing,  and 
she  said  it  was  because  he  would  wish  it.  There  were 
things  to  do  for  him." 

"That  he  would  wish  it?" 

"Your  father.  Don't  you  see?  She's  got  an  idea 
that  she's  his  earthly  vicegerent,  and  there's  some 
majestic  poppy-cock  about  the  Brotherhood.  I  can't 

343 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

understand  it,  and  I  don't  want  to.  All  I  know  is,  she's 
mad.  Bessie  Grant,  when  I  told  the  Lord  I  wranted 
things  to  happen,  I  did  n't  mean  this  kind,  and  He 
knew  it  perfectly  well." 

Rose  had  risen  and  stood  in  grave  attention. 

"Oh,  she  mustn't  do  that,"  she  said  earnestly.  "I 
must  tell  her." 

"Well,  go  and  tell  her,  then,"  said  the  old  lady,  turn 
ing  back  to  Mrs.  Grant.  "If  you  can  make  her  listen, 
you'll  do  more  than  I  can.  I  ought  to  chaperon  her, 
though  you  might  as  well  chaperon  the  Lion  of  Lucerne. 
Bessie!"  And  then  as  Rose  left  the  room,  she  bent 
forward,  and  leaned  her  head  on  grannie's  breast. 
"Bessie,"  she  repeated,  "it's  a  miserable  world." 

To  grannie  all  ages  were  as  one.  The  old  and  the 
young  were  alike  defenseless,  when  they  w^ere  in  trouble, 
and  she  put  her  arms  about  the  frail  creature  and  held 
her  warmly. 

"Hush,  dear!"  she  said,  and  forgot  this  was  not  one 
of  her  own  children.  "Mother  's  sorry."  Then  they 
both  smiled  a  little,  but  grannie  went  on:  "You  must 
come  right  here,  you  know.  Electra  will  be  gone,  and 
Billy,  and  you  don't  want  to  carry  on  the  house  alone. 
You  come  here,  dear,  and  stay  with  me." 

"Could  I?"  Madam  Fulton  lifted  her  tear- wet  face. 
"  If  I  could  stay  here  a  little  while,  maybe  I  might  pull 
myself  together.  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it,  Bessie. 
I  don't  know  how  to  live.  I  never  did." 

Rose  had  run  over  to  the  other  house  in  an  unrea 
soning  haste.  Electra  was  in  the  library,  putting  her 
desk  in  order.  Her  firm  white  hands  wrere  busy,  assort- 

344 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

ing  and  arranging.  She  turned  her  head  as  Rose  came 
in,  and,  without  rising,  spoke  to  her  collectedly  and 
bade  her  be  seated.  She  was  older,  Rose  thought;  she 
looked  even  like  a  different  woman,  not  merely  one 
whom  middle  age  had  overtaken.  Purpose  sat  on  her 
brow,  and  her  eyes  looked  straight  at  you,  as  if  she 
bade  you  tell  your  business  and  be  gone.  The  one  effect 
upon  Rose  was  to  make  her  sorry,  infinitely  sorry  for 
her.  Electra  had  broken  the  globe  of  her  hopes  upon  a 
rock,  and  she  was  not  even  going  to  walk  on  and  leave 
the  shards  forgotten  there.  Rose  spoke  at  once,  to  use 
her  courage  while  she  felt  it  hot. 

"Madam  Fulton  tells  me  you  are  going  abroad." 

"Yes.   I  sail  next  week." 

"Is  it  with  any  purpose?  Electra,  did  my  father 
make  you  love  him?" 

Electra  faced  her.  Color  flowed  into  her  cheeks. 
Her  eyes  glowed  beyond  any  promise  they  had  ever 
given. 

"I  am  glad  you  ask  me  that,"  she  said,  and  her  full 
tone  was  strangely  unlike  the  even  consonance  of  the 
old  Electra's  voice.  At  last  she  forgot  how  she  did 
things  or  why.  Life  was  sweeping  her  along.  "He  never 
made  me  love  him.  It  was  ordained.  It  was  like 
nothing  else  on  earth." 

Rose  felt  cold  with  the  sad  knowledge  of  it. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "he  had  great  power  over  people." 

A  smile  stole  upon  Electra's  lips. 

"We  had  planned  it  all,"  she  said.  "I  was  to  go  to 
Paris.  I  was  to  work  with  him.  Now  that  he  is  gone,  I 
must  carry  on  the  work  for  both  of  us." 

345 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

Rose  regarded  her  with  a  wistful  compassion,  not 
knowing  how  much  she  might  help  her,  and  yet  wishing 
to  offer  all  she  had. 

"Electra,  "she  said,  "what  do  you  mean  by  carrying 
on  the  work?" 

"His  work,  the  Brotherhood." 

"But,  dear  child,  you  would  have  to  submit  yourself 
for  years  and  years  to  all  sorts  of  tests  before  you  would 
be  trusted .  I  don't  even  know  whether  it  won't  fall  apart, 
now  he  has  gone.  It  may  do  that  and  reorganize  in  a 
different  form.  And  how  would  you  find  it  ?  You  think 
of  it  as  a  definite  body  with  headquarters  anybody  can 
reach.  Why,  Electra,  you  might  stay  a  dozen  years  in 
Paris  and  not  put  your  finger  on  it." 

Still  Electra  turned  to  her  that  look  of  rapt  allegiance. 
She  heard  apparently,  yet  the  words  made  no  impres 
sion  on  her  fixed  resolve.  Now  she  spoke,  and  rather 
sweetly.  All  the  tones  of  her  voice,  all  her  looks,  had 
a  reminiscent  value,  as  if  they  were  echoes  from  her  lost 
relation  with  him. 

"He  told  me  where  to  write,"  she  said,  as  if  she  were 
satisfied  with  that.  "I  shall  go  there." 

"I  know,  the  address  for  his  letters.  But  he  was  never 
there.  Now  that  he  is  gone,  the  place  will  be  for  other 
uses.  Everything  connected  with  the  Brotherhood 
keeps  fluctuating,  changing.  There  would  be  no  safety 
otherwise." 

Electra  was  looking  at  her  in  that  removed,  patient 
way  that  made  another  woman  of  her.  It  was  almost 
like  a  mother  who  has  cares  to  think  of  and  can  spare 
no  time  from  them  for  alien  presences 

346 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  must  go,"  she  said  again.   "He  would  wish  it." 

Rose  now  had  her  moment  of  delay.  Her  mind  went 
back  over  that  weary  road,  to  the  past  the  present  had 
so  illumined  for  her.  It  tired  her  to  think  the  trouble 
ever  attendant  on  her  father's  life  was  to  go  on,  ripple 
after  ripple,  now  that  he  had  sunken  into  the  mystery 
of  things.  Once  over  the  horror  of  his  death,  there  had 
been  a  throb  of  thankfulness  that  at  least  an  end  had 
been  made  to  his  great  power  of  bringing  pain.  And 
now  here  was  another  life  to  be  thrown  into  the  void 
after  him,  another  woman  to  love  a  dream.  She  awoke 
from  that  momentary  musing,  to  hear  Electra  saying,  — 

"You  will  excuse  me,  if  I  go  on  working?  I  sail  so 
soon,  and  I  must  leave  everything  in  order." 

"Electra,"  said  Rose.  Then  she  called  her  name 
again,  as  if  appealing  to  the  softest  of  her  moods.  "How 
can  I  tell  you !  Electra,  you  must  n't  love  my  fa 
ther." 

Again  that  swift  smile  came  to  Electra's  face.  The 
face  itself  was  all  a  burning  truth.  The  old  crude  pre 
cision  in  her  seemed  suddenly  to  have  flowered  into 
this  warm  candor  that  spoke  and  liked  to  hear  itself 
disclosing,  regardless  of  its  auditor. 

"You  cannot"  —  she  looked  at  Rose  with  happy 
inspiration,  as  if  she  had  been  the  first  to  make  the 
saying  —  "y°u  can't  kill  love  with  reason." 

Again  Rose  deliberated.  When  she  spoke  it  was  with 
an  air  of  sad  decisiveness. 

"  Electra,"  she  said  wistfully,  "did  he  ask  you  to  marry 
him?" 

"I  never  thought  of  it,"  said  Electra  at  once,  in  the 
347 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

simplest  unreserve.  "It  would  have  seemed  too  small, 
to  limit  it  and  bound  it." 

"Yes.  That  is  what  he  would  have  said,  too  small 
You  were  a  quick  pupil." 

Electra  glowed. 

"I  know  what  he  would  have  said,  if  he  had  had 
time.  He  did  not  need  to  tell  me." 

Rose  sat  wondering  what  argument  would  move  her. 

''Electra,"  she  ventured,  "have  you  had  any  curi 
osity  about  my  father's  relations  to  other  people  ?  " 

"He  had  no  time  to  tell  me,"  said  Electra,  with  a 
proud  dignity. 

"No,  he  would  not  have  told  you.  He  never  con 
fused  his  relations.  Did  you  know  he  was  adored  by 
women  ?  " 

Electra's  face  flamed.  She  made  no  answer.  If  she 
could  have  set  forth  adequately  what  was  in  her  tu 
multuous  thoughts,  she  would  have  told  Rose  that 
nothing  seemed  so  entirely  her  own  as  her  part  in  Mark- 
ham  MacLeod's  life.  She  had  no  curiosity  over  his 
past,  no  doubt  of  what  her  future  would  have  been  with 
him,  accepting  what  he  chose  to  give  her,  and  finding 
it  enough. 

Rose  pursued  her  into  the  cloister  of  her  thought. 

"Do  you  know,  Electra,"  she  was  urging,  "do  you 
know  how  women  devoted  themselves  to  him?" 

"They  must  have  devoted  themselves  to  him.  I  am 
one  of  them.  I  am  proud  to  be." 

"Ah,  but,  Electra,  to  take  so  much  and  give  nothing !" 

"How  do  you  dare  to  say  he  gave  nothing?" 

"I  know.  I  was  slow  in  learning.  I  learned  it  first 
348 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

through  your  brother.  No,  don't  put  me  off  with  a 
gesture.  I  must  speak  of  him.  It  was  he  who  showed 
me  the  cruelty  of  my  father's  attitude  toward  women. 
He  laughed  over  it,  but  he  showed  me." 

"He  was  never  cruel."  Electra  seemed  to  be  dream 
ing  away  in  a  sad  reminiscence  of  his  kindness. 

"But  to  promise  so  much,  Electra,  and  give  nothing! 
He  implied  to  every  one,  I  have  no  doubt,  that  she 
was  his  great  helper,  that  he  would  have  married  her  if 
he  had  not  been  set  aside  by  his  work.  That  was  like 
him.  He  was  a  sponge  drinking  up  devotion." 

"Yes,  and  he  gave  it  back  to  the  hungry  and  the 
thirsty  and  the  cold." 

"I  don't  know.  I  do  know  what  he  absorbed.  One 
woman  did  translations  for  him.  She  worked  like  a  dog, 
and  he  paid  her  with  one  of  his  looks.  Another  —  she 
was  a  titled  lady  —  kept  his  suite  of  rooms  ready  for 
him,  and  when  he  came,  treated  him  like  a  prince.  And 
they  all  had  this  sense  of  intimacy  with  him.  Each 
thought  she  was  the  only  one.  Each  felt  she  was  divided 
from  him  by  hard  circumstance,  but  she  should  possess 
him  in  the  end." 

"In  heaven?"  asked  Electra,  eager  for  the  slightest 
knowledge  of  him. 

"No,  not  in  heaven.  My  father  always  said  his 
expectations  stopped  here.  He  never  carried  the  game 
on  there." 

"The  great  souls"  —  Electra  began,  and  stopped. 
Trouble  was  upon  her  brow.  She  knew  there  was  a 
goodly  reason  for  every  act  he  did,  yet  human  jealousy 
was  in  her.  She  had  to  seek  out  arguments.  "  The  great 

349 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

souls  are  different,"  she  halted.  "They  are  many- 
sided.  Look  at  Goethe — " 

But  Rose  had  heard  that  reason.   She  was  tired  of  it. 

"It's  a  pity  they  make  it  so  hard  for  other  people," 
she  said  wearily.  "Because  they  are  great,  must  they 
be  greedy,  too  ?  But  that  was  my  father.  He  may  have 
been  a  great  man,  but  he  was  not  the  man  you  think 
him.  If  you  saw  him  as  he  was,  —  he  was  a  big,  domi 
nating  animal,  that's  all." 

Electra  sat  staring  at  her,  condemning,  Rose  knew, 
not  Markham  MacLeod,  but  his  daughter.  The  charm 
of  his  mastery  was  still  upon  her.  Rose  and  Peter,  more 
mobile  than  she,  had  escaped  with  the  cutting  of  his 
cord  of  life.  It  was  as  if  they  had  been  under  a  crude 
natural  magnetism,  and  now  that  the  magician  had  gone 
into  another  room,  they  were  free.  But  Electra  had 
petrified  in  the  attitude  where  he  had  left  her.  She 
had  a  pitying  certainty  that  Rose  had  never  known 
him.  Something  like  indignation  came  now  into  her 
face.  She  spoke  passionately :  — 

"Why  do  you  want  to  take  it  away  from  me?" 

Rose  could  not  answer.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes  from 
pure  pity  at  the  loss  and  pain  of  it  all. 

"We  knew  each  other  so  short  a  time,"  brooded 
Electra ;  and  it  was  apparent  that  she  believed  the  rela 
tion  had  been  as  much  to  MacLeod  as  to  her.  "Why 
can't  you  let  me  have  the  comfort  of  it?" 

"If  it  did  n't  mean  so  much  time,  so  much  energy 
wasted  !  If  you  would  n't  devote  your  life  to  it,  —  you 
might,  you  know.  It's  quite  like  you,  Electra.  And  that 
would  be  a  pity;  because  he  was  never  for  a  minute 

350 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

such   a  person   as  you  think  him,  —  never,   Electra, 
never  in  the  world." 

Electra  rounded  upon  her  in  a  flash  of  indignation. 

"Tell  me  what  you  think  him." 

Rose's  mind  ran  back  to  that  first  night  when,  with 
the  daring  inspired  in  her  by  their  meeting,  she  had 
given  Osmond  a  portrait  of  her  father.  Now  was  the 
time  to  paint  it  again,  but,  for  some  reason,  she  could 
not.  The  man  had  not  changed,  but  his  aims  obscured 
him.  Behind  them,  he  was  nothing,  but  they  were  large 
enough  to  make  his  monument.  Instead  of  answering 
directly,  she  found  herself  saying,  — 

"I  have  had  such  letters  about  him!" 

"From  the  Brotherhood?" 

"  Yes.  And  they  will  keep  on  coming  for  a  long  time 
now,  because  it  is  everywhere,  you  know,  in  far,  far-off 
places.  And  there's  a  tremendous  loyalty  in  them,  not 
only  to  him  but  to  the  Brotherhood." 

"How  can  you  read  them  and  not  be  loyal,  too!" 

Rose  considered  why  she  could.  Was  it  because  the 
Brotherhood  seemed,  in  her  latest  acquaintance  with 
it,  to  have  all  the  seeds  of  the  old  conditions  that  made  a 
world  of  hate  ?  If  it  had  been  the  pure  bond  it  promised 
to  be,  could  even  her  father's  sins  have  quenched  the 
flame  in  her?  Then  she  remembered  one  night  when, 
in  her  father's  absence,  some  one  had  spoken  like  a 
poet  and  created,  in  shining  imagery,  a  new  world. 
She  had  seen  it,  the  new  world,  hanging  like  a  crystal 
in  the  rejoicing  sky. 

"One  night  Ivan  Gorof  spoke,"  she  began. 

Electra's  brows  came  together. 
351 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"He  was  the  man  that  died." 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"  Peter  told  me." 

"Yes.  Well,  there  was  a  time  when  Ivan  Gorof  was 
like  a  flame.  He  was  more  moved  than  any  one.  He 
was  a  student,  —  arid  so  enthusiastic,  so  believing,  — 
I  can't  tell  you!  Afterwards  he  changed.  That  came 
suddenly.  But  this  night  he  spoke  about  the  Brother 
hood  as  he  wanted  it  to  be.  He  said  it  could  be  a  chain 
of  hands  round  the  earth,  of  people  who  wanted  to  do 
justice  and  show  mercy.  The  old  oppressors  killed,  he 
said.  The  Brotherhood  must  not  kill.  It  can  put  to 
death,  —  but  justly." 

"What  did  he  mean  by  justly?" 

"Ah,  that  I  don't  know.  I  don't  believe  he  knew, 
that  night.  He  was  like  a  man  seeing  a  vision.  But  if 
such  a  thing  could  grow  and  grow,  he  said,  that  would 
be  the  kingdom  of  God.  It  would  begin  with  the  poor. 
Then  some  day  a  king  would  join  it,  and  there  would 
be  rejoicing  and  wonder  because  some  would  think 
the  king  was  mad  and  others  would  know  it  meant  a 
great  step  upward.  And  they  would  all  choose  law, 
not  liberty  as  the  Brotherhood  sees  it.  And  then,  he 
said,  there  would  be  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth, 
and  it  would  n't  be  possible  for  oppressors  to  live,  be 
cause  everybody  would  love  love  and  be  afraid  of  hate. 
But  it  would  all  come  through  men  who  hated  injus 
tice  more  when  they  did  it  than  when  it  was  done  to 
them." 

"But  that,"  said  Electra,  in  no  great  interest,  "is 
only  Christianity." 

352 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Is  it?  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  thought  it  was 
Ivan  Gorof." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"My  father?" 

"The  chief." 

"It  was  reported  to  him,  and  I  believe  he  said  it  was 
visionary.  He  probably  smiled  a  little.  He  said  there 
would  be  no  peace  without  the  sword.  And  after 
wards  Ivan  told  him  to  his  face  —  I  heard  him  —  that 
it  would  come  by  the  sword,  but  not  the  sword  of  war. 
It  must  be  the  sword  kept  hanging  in  the  temple  to  be 
used  for  the  god  of  the  temple." 

"Was  the  chief  indignant?" 

"He  disapproved.  Ivan  was  ignored,  after  that. 
He  was  quietly  crowded  out.  My  father,"  she  could  not 
resist  saying,  —  "  my  father  was  very  intolerant  of  new 
leadership." 

"Naturally!  He  thought  of  the  general  good." 

Rose  sighed. 

"Perhaps  he  did,  Electra;  I  should  like  to  think  he 
did." 

But  she  had  told  Electra  nothing  yet,  she  realized, 
to  keep  her  from  going  forth  with  an  ignorant  intent. 
She  tried  once  more,  not  to  destroy  the  image  of  Mac 
Leod,  but  to  make  it  a  just  one.  Yet  if  it  were  better 
to  have  the  image  broken,  that,  too,  must  be  done. 

"My  father,"  she  said,  "took  life  like  a  great  play." 

"A  game!"  put  in  Electra  quickly.  She  had  heard 
him  use  the  word,  though  as  he  said  it,  it  seemed 
noble. 

"Yes.  He  was  always  rearranging  scenes  on  the  big 
353 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

stage,  ringing  down  the  curtain  and  putting  it  up  on 
another  act.  But  what  Ivan  Gorof  wanted  —  that  silent 
spread  of  good  —  that  he  couldn't  understand.  He 
wanted  war  and  himself  a  big  figure  in  the  midst." 

"He  was  a  leader!"  cried  Electra  jealously,  "the 
greatest  of  all." 

Rose  smiled  wistfully. 

"  I  have  n't  weakened  your  faith,  have  I  ?"  she  asked. 
"You  don't  doubt  the  wisdom  of  throwing  yourself 
into  this." 

Electra  rose  suddenly  from  the  desk,  with  an  air  of 
terminating  the  interview.  Her  voice  rang  like  metal. 

"  If  you  talked  to  me  until  you  were  an  old  woman, 
you  could  n't  convince  me.  He  was  great  —  great !  I 
should  have  followed  him,  if  he  had  lived.  I  shall  fol 
low  him  all  the  faster  now." 

Rose,  too,  came  to  her  feet. 

"I  almost  think,"  she  said,  "I  shall  hear  of  your 
speaking  for  the  cause." 

A  flush  went  over  Electra's  face.  She  looked  wonder 
fully  equipped  for  some  high  task,  and  also  as  if  she 
recognized  her  own  value  and  was  glad  she  had  that 
to  give.  Rose  went  back  to  Ivan  Gorof  and  his  great 
night. 

"I  keep  remembering  more  and  more  of  what  he 
said,"  she  mused.  "He  said  the  Brotherhood,  as  he 
saw  it,  would  have  its  way  because  it  was  so  beautiful. 
It  would  be  like  men  in  shining  raiment  regarded  be 
cause  they  made  a  light,  and  people  would  see  the  light 
and  want  to  walk  by  it." 

"I  must  put  that  down,"  said  Electra  absorbedly. 
354 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"I  may  at  any  time  have  to  talk  about  him  as  I  knew 
him." 

"Ivan  Gorof?" 

"The  chief.   Was  it  Ivan  Gorof  who  said  that?" 

Immediately,  Rose  saw,  the  words  had  lost  their 
lustre.  They  were  of  no  value,  save  as  they  had  the 
sanction  of  MacLeod.  Electra  moved  a  pace  nearer 
the  door.  She  was  impatient,  Rose  believed,  to  have  her 
gone. 

"Good-by,  Electra,"  she  said  lingeringly  and  sadly. 
"I  can't  persuade  you,  can  I?" 

"No,  you  can't  persuade  me." 

"And  you  glory  in  it!" 

"  Yes.  And  I  thank  God  I  have  something  to  glory  in." 

At  last  she  had  it,  the  purpose  of  her  life,  though  it 
was  only  a  memory.  But  after  all,  what  might  she  not 
turn  it  into  ?  For  she  was  pressing  on  as  rashly  as  if  the 
army  of  her  desires  were  not  at  the  cliff's  edge  below 
which  foamed  the  sea,  and  in  the  sea,  perhaps,  lay 
glorious  disaster. 

"I  shall  be  in  Paris  within  a  month,"  Rose  hesitated. 
"  If  I  can  do  anything  for  you  there,  —  I  told  you  the 
Brotherhood  was  not  easily  found,  but  I  could  introduce 
you  to  the  leaders." 

"They  will  flock  about  you,"  said  Electra,  with  a 
candid  bitterness,  "  because  you  are  his  daughter." 

"  Not  long.  There  are  things  to  do,  —  money  to 
make  over  to  them,  money  that  stood  in  his  name. 
Everything  was  in  his  name.  I  don't  know  how  much 
he  had  of  his  own,  so  I  shall  keep  my  mother's  and 
give  back  the  rest." 

355 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"That  will  be  right,"  said  Electra.  She  did  not  add 
"ethically."  Outlines  had  grown  too  sharp  for  that. 

Rose  held  out  her  hand,  and  Electra,  after  a  per 
ceptible  hesitation,  took  it  in  her  firm  grasp.  Having 
it,  she  seemed  warmed,  through  the  contact,  to  some 
thing  more  humble  and  more  natural.  Still  holding  it, 
she  looked  Rose  in  the  face,  as  if  she  tried  to  read  her 
deepest  self. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  and  stopped. 

"Yes,  Electra."  The  girl's  voice  was  very  soft.  She 
felt  as  if  she  could  tell  Electra  anything  that  would 
help  her. 

"  Did  he  love  you  ?  "  The  words  came  with  difficulty, 
whether  from  jealousy  or  pure  interest  Electra  herself 
could  not  say. 

Rose  stood  a  moment,  not  so  much  considering  her 
answer  as  grieved  that  she  must  give  it. 

"No,  Electra,"  she  said  then.  "My  father  loved 
nobody,  —  but  himself." 

Then,  as  Electra  dropped  her  hand,  she  went  away. 
But  after  three  paces  she  returned,  doubtful  of  her  own 
judgment,  but  ready  to  venture  it. 

"Electra,"  she  said,  "the  papers  have  begun  already 
to  report  a  woman's  speeches  to  the  Brotherhood.  You 
saw  that  yesterday." 

Electra  bowed  her  head  silently.  She  was  white  to 
the  lips. 

"That  woman  was  Ivan  Gorof's  mistress.  My 
father  separated  them,  for  a  time,  just  as  he  is  sepa 
rating  you  now  from  all  your  past.  Ivan  Gorof  accused 
him  of  it,  and  next  day  he  died.  But  I  know,  as  well 

356 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

as  I  know  anything,  that  now  she  has  gone  back  to 
Ivan  Gorof ' s  memory.  She  will  preach  the  Brotherhood 
as  he  saw  it.  Don't  you  see,  Electra,  until  a  man  rises 
that  is  strong  enough,  she  will  lead  the  Brotherhood 
herself?" 

Electra  struck  her  hands  together  in  a  passionate, 
unconsidered  gesture.  But  she  recalled  herself  imme 
diately. 

"Good-by,"  she  said  coldly,  and,  turning  about, 
went  in. 


XXIX 

ROSE,  unquiet  over  her  useless  mission  to  Electra, 
sought  out  Peter  where  he  sat  in  the  sun,  his  mind 
swaying  in  its  constant  rhythm  between  his  happy 
work  and  his  charming  dreams.  He  left  the  garden 
chair  and  came  forward  to  her,  struck  by  the  pathos  of 
her  face,  and  a  little  irritated,  too,  because  MacLeod's 
death  was  a  sorrow  past,  and  it  seemed  unfortunate, 
at  least,  that  there  should  be  so  much  melancholy  in 
bright  weather. 

"Electra  is  going  abroad,  you  know,"  she  said. 

Peter  turned  with  her  and  they  paced  along  the  grass. 
Rose  went  on,  — 

"She  was  much  impressed  by  my  father." 

"I  know." 

"She  belongs  to  the  Brotherhood  now." 

Peter  nodded,  his  mind  still  with  Osmond,  but  cheer 
ing  a  little  in  the  consciousness  of  her  graceful  presence. 

"Peter!"  She  stopped,  and  laid  a  finger  on  his  sleeve. 
"  Say  something  to  her !  She  is  going  over  there  to  work, 
to  throw  herself  into  that  movement.  She  might  as 
well  jump  into  the  Seine." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter  musingly.  "Yes,  of  course!  I'll 
go  see  her.  I'll  go  at  once." 

She  assented  eagerly.  She  seemed  to  hurry  him 
away,  and  not  knowing  quite  what  he  was  to  do  when 
he  got  there,  he  found  himself,  obedient  but  unpre 
pared,  at  the  other  house,  before  Electra.  She  was 

358 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

agreeably  welcoming.  Peter  had  ceased  even  to  remind 
her  of  young  love,  chiefly  because  it  was  a  part  of  her 
dignity  to  put  the  incomplete  dream  aside.  When  she 
was  forced  to  remember,  sometimes  by  a  word  of  grand 
mother's,  it  gave  her  an  irritated  sense  of  having  once 
been  cheek  to  cheek  with  something  unworthy  of  her. 
But  this  morning  Peter  meant  nothing  whatever.  A 
larger  bulk  had  blotted  him  out.  He  plunged,  at 
once. 

"I  am  going  to  Paris,  too,  Electra.  We  shall  meet 
there." 

She  smiled  at  him  with  a  fine  remoteness. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said.  Then  a  wave  of  her  old  dis 
taste  came  over  her,  and  she  asked,  with  the  indiffer 
ence  that  veils  forbidden  feeling,  — 

"Are  you  going  together?" 

"Together?" 

"Yes.   Are  you  going  with  Rose  MacLeod  ?" 

Peter  frowned. 

"We  have  not  mentioned  it,"  he  said.  Their  coming 
to  America  together  had  seemed  most  natural,  but  some 
intonation  of  her  tone  made  the  implication  odious. 
Seeing  his  look,  she  said,  not  giving  him  time  to  an 
swer,  — 

"You  will  help  me  with  the  Brotherhood.  I  must 
get  in  touch  with  it  by  every  possible  means." 

The  color  came  into  his  face.  He  looked  half  ashamed, 
half  wondering. 

"I  can't  account  for  it,"  he  returned,  "but  —  Elec 
tra,  I  shan't  have  time  for  those  things  any  more:" 

"  Not  have  time  —  for  that ! " 
359 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

It  was  as  if  she  accused  him  of  lacking  time  to 
breathe. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Peter.  "It's  all  true,  Electra, 
as  true  as  it  was;  but  I've  got  to  paint.  That's  my 
business." 

"  Don't  you  feel  that  you  owe  anything  to  Markham 
MacLeod?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  interest,  noting  the  indignation 
that  made  a  handsomer  woman  of  her;  but  only  for 
that  reason,  not  because  the  indignation  stirred  him. 
Peter  hardly  knew  how  he  felt  about  Markham  Mac 
Leod.  He  scarcely  thought  of  him  at  all,  save  as  Rose 
recalled  him.  As  to  the  Brotherhood,  now  that  this 
great  persuasive  force  was  gone,  Peter  could  view  it 
dispassionately,  and  it  did  not  move  him.  It  was  like 
waves  heard  a  long  way  off,  the  waves  of  a  sea  he  once 
had  sailed,  but  from  which  he  had  escaped  to  this 
upland  meadow  where  the  light  was  good.  Only  when 
Rose,  possessed  by  the  remembrance  of  Ivan  Gorof's 
vision,  had  gone  home  and  told  him  about  it,  had  he 
felt  the  flare  of  that  old  enthusiasm  to  be  in  the  surge 
of  the  general  life,  —  but  chiefly  then  because  she  had 
chanced  to  use  the  phrase  "shining  armor,"  and  he 
saw  a  knight  pricking  through  a  glade,  with  sunlight 
dappling  between  leaves,  and  knew  it  would  be  good 
to  paint.  There  was  nothing  to  say  to  Electra,  because, 
as  Rose  had  told  him,  she  could  listen  to  nothing  but 
the  Brotherhood,  and  wakened  only  to  MacLeod.  It 
was  not  that  she  refused  other  challenges ;  but  her  face 
grew  mystical  and  he  knew  her  mind  was  afar  from 
him.  He  got  up  to  go. 

360 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"In  Paris,  then,  Electra,"  he  said  awkwardly. 

Her  brows  contracted.  She  remembered  the  other 
tryst  that  was  to  have  been,  and  could  not  answer. 

"You  will  let  me  know  where  you  are.  I  shall  find 
you,"  Peter  said,  as  he  went  down  the  steps,  "at 
once." 

But  as  he  walked  away,  he  knew  it  would  have  to 
be  some  incredible  chance  to  bring  them  together. 
There  was  no  room  for  him. 

Electra  sat  there,  her  feet  together,  her  hands  in 
her  lap,  like  a  carven  image,  and  held  herself  still  in  her 
dream  of  fantasy.  She  hardly  knew  where  she  was  in 
these  days.  This  was  not  the  world  as  she  had  known 
it.  Bound  beyond  bound  of  possibility  lay  over  its 
horizon.  There  had  been  her  former  world,  full  of  dis 
appointments,  lacking  in  opportunities  for  picturesque 
morals,  and  Markham  MacLeod  had  walked  into  it, 
and  turned  on  a  light  under  which  the  whole  place 
glittered.  He  had  caused  things  to  be  forever  different. 
One  such  illumination  made  all  things  possible.  She 
felt  like  an  adventurer  setting  sail.  There  in  the  room 
where  he  had  talked  to  her,  she  sat  and  thought  of  him 
and  even  felt  him  near.  The  great  stories  flashed  out 
before  her,  as  if  she  turned  page  after  page.  Dante  — 
how  many  times  did  he  see  Beatrice  ?  She  must  look 
that  up.  But  once  would  be  enough,  once  for  souls 
to  recognize  each  other  and  then  be  forever  faithful. 
At  a  step  in  the  hall  she  recalled  herself.  It  seemed  as 
if  everybody  interrupted  her  in  her  passionate  musings. 
This  was  Madam  Fulton,  and  Electra  remembered 
she  had  something  to  say  to  her.  Madam  Fulton  looked 

361 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

very  tired  and  irked  in  some  way,  as  if  she  found  the 
daily  burden  hard  to  bear.  Electra  rose,  and  waited 
scrupulously  for  her  to  sit. 

"Billy  Stark  comes  back  to-morrow,"  said  Madam 
Fulton.  She  took  a  chair,  and  laid  her  head  back 
wearily. 

"When  does  he  sail?" 

"Next  week.  You  go  Wednesday.  He  goes  Satur 
day." 

Electra  dared  not  remind  her  of  that  wild  threat  of 
marrying  Billy  Stark  and  sailing  with  him.  Her  grand 
mother  looked  a  pathetically  old  woman,  and  such 
fantasy  seemed  to  have  withdrawn  into  its  own  place. 

"Grandmother,"  she  began  delicately.  She  had  a 
fear  of  disturbing  something  frail  that  might  fall  to 
pieces  of  its  own  weakness. 

"Well." 

"Shall  you  stay  on  here?" 

Madam  Fulton  roused  herself. 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  am  going  to  Bessie  Grant's. 
She'll  help  me  pull  myself  together,  and  in  the  fall  I 
shall  move  back  to  town." 

Electra  came  awake  to  her  pathetic  look. 

"You  are  not  feeling  well,  grandmother,"  she  said 
solicitously. 

"Feeling  well!"  The  old  lady  repeated  it  with  a 
fractious  emphasis.  "I'm  worn  out." 

"Is  it  anything  particular,  grandmother?" 

"  Billy  Stark  is  going  away,  is  n't  he  ?  Is  n't  that  par 
ticular  enough?  He's  the  only  human  creature  left, 
except  Bessie  Grant  and  that  pretty  girl." 

362 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Rose  MacLeod?" 

"Yes;  but  she's  too  young.  She  tires  me;  you  all 
tire  me,  all  but  Billy  and  Bessie  Grant.  No,  you  can 
close  the  house,  or  I  will,  after  you're  gone.  I  shan't 
be  in  it." 

There  was  something  inevitably  foolish  to  Electra 
in  the  regret  of  an  old  woman  at  losing  the  company 
of  an  old  man  whom  she  had  not  married  at  the  proper 
time.  She  found  herself  hoping,  with  some  distaste,  that 
grandmother  would  forget  him  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
settle  down  into  the  decencies  of  age.  But  Madam 
Fulton  seemed  to  have  gathered  herself  and  summoned 
energy  for  action.  She  sat  upright  now,  and  composed 
her  face  into  more  cheerful  lines.  She  looked  at  Electra, 
and  a  wicked  smile  flickered  out. 

"I  believe,"  said  Madam  Fulton,  "if  I  have  the 
strength,  the  day  he  sails,  I  believe  I'll  marry  Billy 
Stark  and  go  along  with  him." 

Electra  looked  her  pain  and  then  her  purpose  to 
ignore  it. 

"I  have  left  everything  in  complete  order,  grand 
mother,"  she  said.  "It  will  be  easy  to  close  the  house. 
I  have  made  my  will." 

"Bless  me!" 

"I  have  given  you  half  my  property.  The  other 
half  I  leave  to  the  Brotherhood." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Electra!  What  do  you  want 
to  act  like  that  for?" 

Electra  was  too  enamored  of  that  deed  to  keep  it 
hidden. 

"It  is  for  a  monument  to  Markham  MacLeod," 
363 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

she  said,  from  her  abiding  calm.  "But  it  is  to  be  used 
by  the  Brotherhood.  He  would  wish  that." 

Madam  Fulton  was  regarding  her,  not  satirically 
now,  but  in  an  honest  wonder. 

"Electra,"  she  said,  "I  glory  in  you." 

"Grandmother!" 

"I  do.  I  can't  help  it.  You've  gone  bad,  just  as  I 
said  you  would.  And  you  never  were  so  human  in  your 
life.  Brava!  I'm  proud  of  you." 

But  Electra  lifted  her  head  a  little  and  did  not 
answer.  Grandmother,  she  knew,  could  hardly  under 
stand.  It  made  her  isolation  the  more  sacred. 

"You  give  me  courage,"  the  old  lady  was  saying. 
"Why,  you  put  some  life  into  me!  I  don't  know  but 
I've  got  the  strength  to  fly  with  Billy,  after  all." 

Electra  rose.  She  could  not  listen.  But  at  the  door 
she  turned,  a  new  thought  burning  in  her. 

"Grandmother,"  she  said  irrepressibly,  "if  you 
would  make  your  will  — " 

"  Bless  you,  I  have  n't  sixpence,"  said  the  old  lady 
gayly,  "except  the  tainted  money  from  the  book." 

"That's  what  I  mean."  Electra  came  back  and 
stood  beside  her.  She  breathed  an  honest  fervor. 
"That  money,  grandmother,  —  it  is  tainted,  as  you 
say,  —  if  you  would  leave  that  to  the  Brotherhood  — " 

Madam  Fulton  was  on  her  feet,  with  an  amazing 
swiftness. 

"My  money!"  she  cried.  Then  a  gleam  of  humor 
irradiated  her  face,  and  she  ended  affectionately,  "  My 
own  tainted  money?  Why,  I'm  devoted  to  it.  And 
I  tell  you  this,  Electra :  if  there 's  one  scrap  of  it  left 

364 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

when  you  inherit,  if  you  give  it  to  your  brotherhoods, 
I'll  haunt  you.  As  I'm  a  living  woman,  you  shan't 
have  a  chance.  I  '11  make  my  will  and  Billy  Stark  shall 
help  me,  and  I'll  leave  it  to  that  pretty  girl,  and  she 
shall  buy  ribbons  with  it.  And  —  My  heavens !  but 
there's  Billy  Stark  now." 

He  was  coming  up  the  walk,  and  she  flew  to  meet 
him  in  an  ingenuous  happiness,  half  dramatic  fervor 
to  plague  Electra,  who,  walking  with  dignity,  went  out 
the  other  way. 

Madam  Fulton  was  laughing,  at  Electra,  at  life  itself. 

"Billy,"  said  she,  "I'd  rather  see  you  than  all  the 
heavenly  hosts." 

Billy  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

"I  found  I'd  got  things  pretty  well  in  order,"  he 
explained.  "I  thought  you  would  n't  mind  my  coming 
sooner." 

"Mind!  I'm  enchanted.  Come  along  in  and  have 
cold  drinks  and  things.  Bless  me,  Billy!  how  it  does 
set  me  up  to  see  you." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room,  and  when 
no  one  answered  the  bell,  on  into  the  kitchen  for  explo 
ration  in  the  icebox.  She  tiptoed  about,  her  pretty 
skirt  caught  under  one  arm,  her  high  heels  clicking. 
The  pink  came  into  her  cheeks.  She  had  the  spirit 
which  is  of  no  age.  Then  they  sat  down  together  at  the 
dining-table  in  the  shaded  calm,  and  while  Billy  drank, 
she  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table  and,  with  the  ice 
clinking  in  her  glass,  drank  and  made  merry.  She 
might  have  been  sixteen  and  in  a  French  cafe.  Her 
spirits  were  seething,  and  she  feared  no  morrow. 

365 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"I  never  can  let  you  go  in  the  world,  Billy,"  she  said, 
out  of  her  gay  candor. 

He  was  instant  with  his  gallant  remedy. 

"Come  with  me,  then!" 

"Sometimes"  —she  paused  and  watched  him  — 
"sometimes  I  almost  think  I  will." 

William  Stark  was  a  tired  man  that  day.  He  had 
been  telephoning  and  besieging  men  in  their  offices 
and  talking  business ;  he  felt  his  age.  It  was  one  of  the 
days  when  it  seemed  to  him  that  sacred  business  even 
was  less  than  nothing,  —  vanity,  —  and  when  he  won 
dered,  without  interest,  who  would  spend  the  money 
he  might  make.  He  was  plainly  fagged,  and  here  was 
a  gay  creature  of  his  own  age,  beguiled  by  the  old  peren 
nial  promises,  whom  life  had  not  yet  convinced  of  its 
own  insolvency.  He  wondered  at  the  youth  of  women, 
their  appetite  for  pleasure,  their  inability  to  realize 
when  the  game  is  done.  There  was  the  curtain  slowly 
descending  between  age  and  its  entertainment,  and 
Madam  Fulton  was  clapping  her  unwearied  hands  as 
if  things  could  go  on  forever.  Grant  her  an  encore, 
and  she  would  demand  another.  As  for  him,  he  would 
fain  go  home  to  bed.  But  Billy  was  a  man  of  his  word. 
His  loyal  heart  could  not  allow  itself  to  recognize  the 
waywardness  of  his  sad  mind.  The  one  had  done  with 
life  in  all  but  its  outer  essences.  The  other,  in  human 
decency,  must  go  on  swearing  the  old  vows  to  the  last. 
His  face  took  on  a  resolution  that  made  him  more  the 
man,  and  sobered  her.  He  put  out  his  hand. 

"Will  you  come,  Florrie?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  Billy,"  she  answered.   "I'll  come." 
366 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"You  honor  me  very  much."  He  sat  there  holding 
the  frail  hand  and  wondering  at  himself,  wondering 
at  them  both.  If  he  had  known  he  was  to  go  baek  in 
this  guise,  he  might  not  have  had  the  courage  to  come. 
But  it  was  well.  It  was  a  good  thing,  having  missed 
many  ventures,  not  to  let  this  one  pass.  Madam  Fulton 
was  having  one  of  her  moments  of  a  renewed  grasp  on 
life,  a  gay  delight  in  it  which  was  a  matter  of  nerves 
and  quite  distinct  from  memory  or  hope.  She  was  dis 
coursing  gleefully. 

"We  won't  tell  Electra." 

"Not  if  you'd  rather  not." 

"She  shall  sail,  and  we'll  sail  after  her.  We'll  send 
her  cards  from  London.  My  stars,  Billy !  do  you  think 
we're  mad  ?" 

"You  may  be,"  said  Billy.  "As  for  me,  I'm  a  great 
hand  at  a  bargain." 

And  while  there  were  flutterings  of  wings  before 
sailing,  Osmond  bent  over  his  ground  and  delved  and 
thought.  His  brows  were  knitted.  He  hardly  saw  the 
earth  or  his  fellow  workmen,  but  answered  mechanically 
when  men  came  for  orders,  and  went  on  riving  up  the 
earth,  as  if  it  were  his  enemy,  and  then  smoothing  it  in 
tenderest  friendliness. 


XXX 

ROSE  and  grannie  had  been  living  in  an  atmosphere 
of  calm.  Something  was  not  determined  yet,  and 
they  had  to  wait  for  it.  Osmond  had  not  come  to  the 
house  for  his  early  calls  on  grannie,  and  Rose,  awake 
in  her  room  to  hear  his  step,  at  least,  listened  for  it  with 
a  miserable  certainty  of  disappointment.  Every  morn 
ing  she  gave  a  quick  look  of  inquiry  as  she  and  grannie 
met,  and  the  old  lady  would  say,  — 

"No,  dear,  no!" 

She  sickened  mentally  under  the  delay,  and  at  last 
her  heart  began  to  ask  her  whether  he  would  ever  see 
her  again.  On  the  day  she  told  grannie  that  she  was 
going  to  Paris  to  settle  MacLeod's  estate,  grannie 
said,  — 

"That's  right.   But  you'll  come  back." 

"I  must  come  back.  You  must  let  me."  It  was  a 
great  cry  out  of  a  warring  heart.  "  But  I  must  see  him 
before  I  go.  May  I  send  for  him  to  come?" 

"You  must  send  for  him,  my  dear,  and  have  your 
talk,"  said  grannie. 

So  it  was  grannie  who  gave  the  message  to  Peter, 
and  afterwards  told  him  Rose  was  to  see  Osmond 
alone.  Peter  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  He  did 
not  altogether  understand. 

"What  is  it  now,  child  ?"  asked  grannie. 

"I  wondered  if  Rose  needs  to  see  him.  This  is  all 
so  painful  for  her !  Why  should  she  be  bothered  ? " 

368 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"She  must  see  him,"  said  grannie.  "It  wouldn't 
be  possible  for  her  to  go  away  without." 

"She  demands  too  much  of  herself,"  said  Peter, 
stopping  in  his  stride. 

Grannie  was  smiling  at  him  in  a  way  that  indicated 
she  was  very  old  and  Peter  was  young.  A  wave  of 
knowledge  swept  upon  him. 

"What  is  it,  grannie?"  he  demanded.  "What  is 
between  them?" 

"You  must  let  them  find  out." 

"But  what  is  it?  I  ought  to  know.  Don't  you  see 
what  I  mean  ?  I  'm  going  to  marry  her,  grannie,  when 
all  this  is  over." 

Grannie  looked  at  him  in  quick  concern. 

"Oh,  no,  Peter,"  she  said.   "No,  you  can't  do  that." 

"Why  can't  I?" 

"She  doesn't  love  you,  Peter." 

"But  she  will.  I  can  make  her  happy.  I  depend  on 
showing  her  I  can." 

"That  is  n't  enough,  Peter." 

"What?" 

"To  make  her  happy.  You  might  make  her  miser 
able,  and  if  she  loved  you,  it  would  be  all  one  to  her." 

"Tom  Fulton  made  her  miserable.  Was  that  all 
one  to  her?" 

"  She  is  n't  the  girl  Tom  Fulton  hurt.  She 's  a  woman 
now." 

"Then  what  is  it  between  her  and  Osmond?" 

Grannie  looked  at  him  a  few  moments  seriously. 
She  seemed  to  be  considering  what  he  should  be  told. 
At  last  she  spoke. 

369 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Peter,  I  believe  it's  love  between  them." 

"Love!" 

"  Yes,  dear.  She  has  a  very  strong  feeling  for  Osmond ." 

"Osmond!" 

Grannie  got  up  out  of  her  chair.  She  was  trembling. 
Peter  could  almost  believe  it  was  with  indignation 
against  him,  her  other  boy,  not  so  dear  as  Osmond, 
but  still  her  boy.  Her  calm  face  flushed,  and  when  she 
spoke  her  voice  also  trembled. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  "whatever  we  do,  let  us  never 
doubt  the  kindness  of  God." 

It  was  a  little  hard  on  Peter,  he  felt,  for  here  was  he, 
too,  devoted  to  Osmond  with  a  full  heart;  yet  nature 
was  nature,  and  life  was  life.  He  could  not  help  seeing 
himself  in  the  bridegroom's  garment. 

"Osmond  is  the  greatest  thing  there  is,"  he  said. 
"  But,  grannie  —  '  He  stopped. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  grannie.  She  was  not  accus 
tomed  to  speaking  with  authority.  The  passion  of  her 
life  had  all  resolved  itself  into  deeds,  into  a  few  simple 
words  like  the  honey  in  the  flower  and  the  slowly 
fructifying  cells.  Now  she  stood  leaning  on  her  staff  and 
thinking  back  over  the  course  she  had  run.  Osmond 
had  been  the  child  of  her  spirit  because  he  was  maimed . 
She  had  drawn  with  him  every  breath  of  his  horror  of 
life,  his  acquiescence,  his  completed  calm.  What  with 
drawals  there  were  in  him,  what  wrestlings  of  the  will, 
what  iron  obediences,  only  she  knew.  There  was  the 
sweetness,  too,  of  the  little  child  who,  when  they  were 
alone,  in  some  sad  twilight,  used  to  come  and  put  his 
arms  about  her  neck  and  lay  his  cheek  to  hers,  with  a 

370 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

mute  plea  to  her  to  understand.  And  now  when  Osmond 
had  harnessed  himself  to  the  earth,  God  had  let  a  beauti 
ful  flower  spring  up  before  him,  to  say,  "  Behold  me." 
God  did  everything,  grannie  knew.  He  had  not  merely 
created,  in  a  space  of  magnificent  idleness,  some  centu 
ries  ago,  and  then,  with  the  commendation  that  it  was 
"good,"  turned  away  his  head  and  let  his  work  shift 
for  itself.  He  was  about  it  now,  every  instant,  in  the 
decay  of  one  seed  to  nourish  another,  in  the  blast  and 
in  the  sunshine.  He  was  ever  at  hand  to  hear  the  half- 
formed  cry  of  the  soul,  the  whisper  it  hardly  knew  it 
gave.  He  was  the  still,  small  voice.  And  He  had  remem 
bered  Osmond  as  He  had  been  remembering  him  all 
these  years.  He  had  led  him  by  painful  steps  to  the 
hilltop,  and  then  had  painted  for  him  a  great  sunrise 
on  the  sky.  The  night  might  lower  and  obscure  it,  the 
rain  fall,  or  the  lightning  strike.  But  Osmond  would 
have  seen  the  sunrise.  And  all  grannie  could  say  was,  — 

"It  may  not  turn  out  well,  dear,  but  it's  a  great  thing 
for  him  to  have." 

Peter  strode  away  into  the  garden.  She  followed 
him,  in  an  hour  or  so,  and  asked  if  she  should  sit  for 
him,  and  all  that  afternoon  he  painted  on  her  portrait, 
with  the  dash  and  absorption  of  one  who  knows  his  task. 

"Tired,  grannie?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"No,  Peter." 

"You're  going  to  be  a  sweet  thing  with  your  white 
cap  here  against  the  hollyhocks,"  said  Peter.  "I  must 
hurry.  When  it 's  done,  I  '11  leave  it  for  exhibition,  and 
then  I'll  go  back  to  France." 

That  night  he  strode  away  for  a  walk,  and  grannie 
371 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

betook  herself  to  her  own  room.  So  Rose  was  alone 
when  Osmond  came.  She  had  dressed  for  him,  and  she 
looked  the  great  lady.  There  was  about  her  that  air 
of  proud  conquest  worn  by  women  when  they  are 
willing  to  let  man  see  how  much  he  may  lose  in  lacking 
them,  or  how  rich  he  is  in  the  winning.  It  says  also, 
perhaps,  "This  is  the  wedding  garment.  It  is  worn 
for  you." 

When  Osmond  entered,  these  things  were  in  his 
mind  because  it  was  a  part  of  his  bitter  thought  that 
he  had  no  clothes  to  meet  her  in.  For  many  years  he  had 
seen  no  use  for  the  conventional  dress  of  gentlemen, 
and  grannie  had  never  failed  to  like  him  in  his  clean 
blue  blouse.  So  he  came  in,  as  Rose  thought  at  once, 
like  a  peasant  of  an  Old  World  country.  All  but  the 
face.  What  peasant  ever  wore  a  mien  like  that:  the 
clarified  look  of  conquered  grief,  the  wistfulness  of  the 
dark  eyes,  the  majestic  patience  of  one  who,  finding 
that  the  things  of  the  world  are  not  for  him,  has  put 
them  softly  by  ?  There  were  new  lines  in  the  face,  Rose 
could  well  believe ;  in  spite  of  those  appealing  softnesses 
of  the  eyes,  it  was  a  face  cut  in  bronze.  She  held  out 
her  hand,  and  he  took  it  briefly. 

"I  had  to  see  you,"  she  said,  rushing  upon  the  sub 
ject  of  her  fears.  "  I  am  going  away." 

They  were  seated  now,  and  Osmond  was  looking 
at  her  steadily.  "But  I  am  coming  back,"  she  smiled. 
"Please  be  glad  to  see  me." 

"  I  can't  seem  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Osmond  abruptly, 
also  smiling  a  little,  in  his  whimsical  way.  "You  are 
such  a  fine  lady." 

372 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

She  glanced  down  at  her  dress,  and  hated  it. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  put  this  on,  except,  perhaps, 
I  did  n't  want  you  to  despise  me  for  what  I  am  going 
to  say." 

"Despise  you!" 

She  choked  a  little  and  dared  it. 

"  You  have  n't  been  to  the  playhouse  lately." 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"Have  you  been  there  yourself?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  could  n't." 

"Well,  I  could  n't,  either." 

"Why?"  cried  the  girl  passionately.  "Why  has 
everything  got  to  change  ?  Why  should  you  tell  me  you 
would  be  there  always  and  then  never  come  again? 
Why?" 

Osmond  regarded  her  in  what  seemed  a  sad  well- 
wishing. 

"Youth  can't  last,"  he  said.  "That  was  youth.  We 
are  grown  up  now." 

Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  The  finality  of  his  tone 
seemed  to  be  consigning  her  to  fruitless  days  without 
the  joy  of  dreams. 

"  Well,"  he  added,  "  it  does  n't  matter.  You  are  going 
away." 

"You  said  once  I  should  take  the  key  of  the  play 
house  with  me." 

He  smiled  humorously,  as  at  a  child  who  must,  if  it 
is  possible,  be  allowed  some  pleasure  in  the  game. 

373 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

"Take  it,  playmate,"  he  said. 

The  color  ran  over  her  face.  She  sparkled  at 
him. 

"Oh,  now  you've  said  it!"  she  entreated.  "You've 
called  me  by  my  name.  Now  we  can  go  back." 

Osmond  still  smiled  at  her.    He  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  very  willful,"  he  remarked. 

"That's  right.   Abuse  me.   I  like  it,  playmate." 

But  he  could  abuse  her  no  more.  Fancy  in  him  was 
dead  or  dumb.  He  was  tired  of  thinking,  tired  of  his 
own  life,  with  its  special  problems.  A  deep  gravity 
came  over  her  own  face  also.  When  she  spoke,  it  was 
with  a  high  dignity  and  seriousness. 

"Osmond,"  she  said,  "I  sent  for  you  because  I  want 
to  give  you  something  before  I  go  away.  I  can't  bear 
to  go.  I  can't  bear  to  leave  this  place  and  grannie  — 
and  you.  Sometimes  I  think  I  shall  die  of  homesickness 
over  there,  even  in  the  few  weeks  I  stay,  to  think  what 
may  happen  to  you  before  I  see  you  again.  So  I  want 
to  give  it  to  you." 

She  was  under  some  stress  he  did  not  understand, 
yet  speaking  with  a  determined  quiet. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  gently. 

She  had  no  words  left,  only  the  two  she  had  thought 
of  for  days  and  days  until  it  had  seemed  to  her  he  must 
hear  her  heart  beating  them  out.  She  held  her  hands 
together  in  her  lap,  and  spoke  clearly,  though  it  fright 
ened  her :  — 

"My  love,  Osmond,  my  love." 

He  had  turned  his  look  away  from  her,  and  feeling 
the  aloofness  of  that,  she  fell  to  trembling.  When  he 

374 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

began  to  speak,  she  stopped  him.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
he  was  bringing  rejection  of  her  gift,  and  she  could  not 
bear  it. 

"No,"  she  said,  "don't  say  it." 

But  he  did  speak,  in  that  grave,  moved  tone :  — 

"That  is  dear  of  you.  I  shall  always  keep  your 
present,  just  as  grannie  will  keep  your  love  for  her. 
It's  very  precious." 

Hope  and  will  went  out  of  her.  She  put  her  clasped 
hands  on  the  chair  in  front  of  her,  and  bent  her  head 
upon  them,  trembling. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said  at  last,  "what  is  it  that  has 
come  between  us  ?  Is  it  what  you  told  me  once  in  the 
playhouse  ?  that  you  were  going  to  give  your  life  away 
when  you  chose?" 

He  laughed  a  little,  sadly,  to  himself. 

"How  long  ago  that  seems!"  he  mused.  "No,  it 
was  a  different  thing  I  meant  then." 

"What  was  it?  Tell  me,  Osmond." 

"  I  can  tell  you  now,  for  I  shall  never  do  it.  It  smells 
of  madness  to  me,  now  I  see  what  living  demands  of  us. 
It  was  only,  —  well,  my  body  had  n't  done  me  much 
service  in  the  ways  I  should  have  liked." 

"Tell  me,  Osmond!" 

"  I  meant  to  give  it,  living,  to  some  scientist,  to  experi 
ment  on.  To  a  doctor,  if  I  could  find  one  that  would 
meet  me  as  I  wanted  to  be  met,  to  work  on,  —  with 
drugs,  with  germs,  —  the  things  they  do  to  dogs,  you 
know." 

She  forgot  how  he  had  held  himself  aloof  from  her, 
or  that  some  grain  of  pride  might  well  have  met  his 

375 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

coldness.  She  was  kneeling  beside  him,  her  hands  about 
his  neck,  her  head  upon  his  breast. 

"No,  Osmond,  no,"  she  sobbed.  "It  would  kill  me." 

The  man  sat  still.  Then  he  spoke,  and  his  voice  was 
hard  as  iron. 

"It  will  never  happen,  I  tell  you." 

"  To  have  you  tortured,"  she  was  sobbing.  "  To  have 
them  hurt  you  —  your  hands,  your  dear  hands  — " 

He  lifted  one  of  them,  in  a  dazed  way,  and  looked 
at  it,  all  brown  with  work  and  yet  a  wonder  in  its  virile 
power.  Then  a  flame  passed  over  him  and  burned  up 
what  kept  him  from  her.  His  arms  were  about  her  and 
he  bent  his  mouth  to  hers.  For  the  first  time  since  he 
could  remember,  he  forgot  what  he  had  called  his  des 
tiny.  And  after  they  had  kissed,  he  said,  — 

"Now,  sweetheart,  now  we  can  talk.  It's  better  so, 
even  if  we  say  good-by  to-morrow." 

She  drew  apart  from  him  and  went  back  to  her  chair. 
But  there  she  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him  and 
Osmond  took  them,  and  so,  holding  them,  they  spoke 
out  their  true  minds.  Her  eyes  were  brimming  full. 

"  I  was  n't  sure  you  would  take  my  present,"  she 
said.  "It's  dear  of  you  to  take  it,  Osmond." 

"Your  love,  your  wonderful  love!" 

"  I  selected  it  with  great  care,  dear."  She  was  laugh 
ing.  "It's  very  shiny,  and  nice,  and  warranted  to  last. 
It's  the  strongest  love  I  could  find.  I  never  saw  one 
like  it.  Shall  we  live  in  the  playhouse  now,  dear?" 

"  You  will  live  in  my  heart.   Rose,  I  kissed  you." 

She  bent  to  him. 

"Kiss  me  again.  Kisses  are  little  blooms  budding 
376 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

out  of  my  love.  You  are  a  gardener-man.  You  know 
the  faster  flowers  are  picked,  the  sooner  they  bloom 
again." 

He  was  regarding  her  in  wonder. 

"You  must  be  crazy  to  think  you  like  me!"  he  said 
honestly.  Again  she  laughed. 

" I  am !  stark  mad.  I  feel  as  if  a  thousand  birds  were 
singing  and  all  the  lilies  opening.  You  remember  how 
they  smelled  that  night,  Osmond  ?  You  would  n't  go 
with  me  to  smell  them.  They've  come  to  us.  They're 
here." 

He  held  her  gaze. 

"Be  serious,"  he  said. 

"I  can't,  I  like  you  so!" 

"Only  till  I  ask  you  this.  You  said  once  you  had 
always  been  in  love  with  love." 

"Always.  Ought  I  to  be  ashamed  of  it?  I  am  not. 
I  am  proud.  To  find  the  half  of  you  that  you  have 
been  lonesome  for,  and  then  be  faithful  to  it,  —  oh, 
beautiful!" 

"Are  you  in  love  with  love,  or  are  you  in  love  with 
me?" 

"  With  you,  dear  Osmond."  The  clear  eyes  answered 
him  in  a  joyous  confidence. 

"I  must  have  taken  hold  of  your  imagination." 

"  Yes !  You  make  me  see  visions  and  dream  dreams. 
Hear  how  fast  I  talk  to  you !  The  words  can't  tumble 
out  quick  enough,  there  are  so  many  more  pushing 
them." 

"  No,  I  mean  I  have  taken  hold  of  your  imagination 
because  I  am  so  queer." 

377 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"You  are  queer,  Osmond.  It's  queer  to  be  so 
darling." 

"If  I  were  sure!"  He  loosed  her  hands  and  looked 
away  from  her,  and  his  face  set  gravely. 

"What,  Osmond?" 

"  If  I  were  sure  it  was  fair  to  you  —  best  for  you 
to  let  you  know  the  truth  —  then  I  'd  tell  you." 

"Tell  me  what?" 

He  drew  her  hands  back  into  his.  He  was  looking 
at  her  with  the  first  voluntary  yielding  of  his  whole  self. 
It  lighted  his  face  into  beauty,  the  chrism  of  the  adoring 
spirit  laid  upon  trembling  lip  and  flashing  eye.  "I 
have  withheld  from  you,"  he  said,  in  quick,  short  utter 
ance,  "  because  it  had  to  be.  But  if  you  care,  too,  why 
deny  us  both  one  hour  of  happiness,  if  we  part  to 
morrow?" 

"  Deny  me  nothing,"  she  was  murmuring.  "  Let  me 
see  your  heart." 

"You  should  see  my  soul,  if  it  could  be.  Dear 
est,  it  was  so  from  the  first  minute.  I  was  afraid 
of  you  with  the  terrible  fear  of  love.  Don't  you  see 
how  different  it  is  with  us  ?  You  longed  for  love 
because  you  are  the  angel  of  it.  I  was  afraid  of  it  be 
cause  it  would  have  to  mean  hunger  and  pain  and 
thirst." 

"  But  not  now !  not  now !  We  have  found  each  other, 
and  it  means  the  same  thing  for  both  of  us." 

"We  have  got  to  part,  you  know,  for  a  couple  of 
ages  or  so,  or  even  till  we  die.  Maybe  I  can  get  into 
some  sort  of  trim  by  that  time,  if  I  give  my  mind  to  it ; 
but  here  it's  no  use,  dear,  you  see." 

378 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"No  use!  Osmond,  I  have  given  you  my  love. 
What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  it?" 

He  caught  his  breath  miserably. 

"I  am  going  to — God!  what  am  I  going  to  do! 
You  are  honest,"  he  cried,  "you  mean  it  all,  but  — 
sweetheart,  look  at  me,  and  see  it  is  not  possible.  To 
night  ends  it." 

She  withdrew  her  hands  from  his,  and  sat  upright  in 
her  chair. 

"Then,"  she  said,  "you  are  a  coward." 

"Am  I  ?"  He  looked  at  her,  blanched  and  sorrowful. 
"Ami,  Rose?" 

"You  are  a  coward.   You  love  me — " 

"You  know  it!   You  do  know  that!" 

"You  know  you  do,  and  then  you  refuse  to  take 
the  simple,  sweet,  faithful  way  with  me." 

"What  way,  my  dear?" 

She  did  not  even  flush  at  the  words,  sprung  from  a 
great  sincerity. 

"Shall  I  ask  you?  Shall  I  ask  you  to  let  me  take 
your  name  and  live  with  you,  and  be  true  to  you?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  the  terrible  recognition 
that  brings  souls  almost  too  close. 

"You  are  a  great  woman,  my  dear,"  said  Osmond. 
He  rose  and  stood  before  her.  "Look  at  me.  I  hate 
my  body.  Could  you  love  it?" 

"I  do  love  it,"  said  the  woman.  "And  I  love  your 
soul.  And  I  am  ashamed  to  think  we  can  know  the 
things  we  have  known  and  then  think  of  the  bodies 
we  live  in.  Grannie  believes  in  immortal  life.  I  believe 
in  it  too,  since  I  have  known  you." 

379 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"There  are  a  good  many  hours,  my  dear,  when  we 
forget  immortal  life.  The  world  goes  hard  with  us.  In 
those  times,  shall  you  look  at  me  and  hate  me  ? " 

She  was  smiling  at  him  through  tears. 

"I  shall  look  at  you  and  love  you,  stupid !"  she  said. 
"Oh,  how  little  men  know!" 

"And  then,"  he  was  continuing,  in  his  bitter  honesty, 
"  I  am  a  laboring  man.  I  told  Peter  you  were  a  terrible 
Parisian." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  don't  quite  know  what  you  are,  Osmond. 
There's  a  good  deal  of  grannie  in  you.  Perhaps  that 
is  one  of  the  things  I  love.  You  work  with  your  hands. 
Everything  is  possible  to  you,  every  kind  of  splendid 
thing,  because  you  have  not  been  spoiled  by  artificial 
life,  the  ambitions  of  it,  the  poor,  mean  hypocrisies. 
Strange  that  I  should  be  talking  about  labor!" 

"Why  strange?" 

"Because  I  hated  the  mention  of  it  while  my  father 
lived.  But  now  I  seem  to  have  gone  back  to  my  old 
feeling  of  a  kind  of  pity  for  them  all,  —  the  ones  that 
work  blindly  out  of  the  light,  —  I  see  them  as  Ivan 
Gorof  saw  them,  that  great  sea  of  the  oppressed." 

"But  not  every  workingman  is  oppressed." 

"No,  no!  Not  here.  But  in  other  countries  where 
they  are  surging  and  trying  to  have  their  ignorant  way. 
And  they  are  no  more  to  be  pitied  than  the  rich.  And 
I  keep  wishing  for  them,  not  money  and  power  and 
leisure,  such  as  the  rich  have,  but  something  better, 
something  I  wish  the  rich  had,  too." 

"The  heart  that  sees  God,  grannie  would  say." 
380 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Maybe  grannie  would  pray  for  it,  Osmond.  Maybe 
I  could  sing  it  —  I  hope  to  sing  now  —  maybe  you 
could  put  it  into  the  land  and  bring  it  out  in  flowers." 

"That's  poetry!"  said  Osmond.  He  was  smiling  at 
her  unconscious  way  of  showing  him  how  lovely  she 
was  and  how  loving.  "I  am  going  now,  dear.  I  am 
going  to  take  your  present  home  carefully  and  look  at 
it  alone." 

She  knitted  wistful  brows  a  moment.  Then  she  too 
smiled. 

"You  will  see  how  valuable  it  is  when  you  look  at 
it,"  she  said.  "It  will  shine  so." 

He  had  risen  and  stood  before  her,  looking  at  her. 

"Rose,"  he  said,  "you're  a  darling." 

"Ami?"   She  was  radiant. 

"I  am  going  to  think  up  the  things  lovers  have  said, 
and  read  Solomon's  Song,  maybe!  But  now  I'm  going 
back  to  the  plantation,  to  let  the  Almighty  God  and 
the  undergods  have  a  chance  to  tell  me  how  to  give 
you  up." 

"Ask  them  now,  Osmond,"  she  breathed.  "Ask 
here,  while  I  am  here  to  answer,  too." 

"No,"  said  Osmond.  He  shook  his  head.  "Not 
while  we  are  together.  I  can't  listen  to  Him." 

In  the  road  he  met  Peter.  They  stopped,  and  Peter 
said  at  once,  — 

"  I  've  got  three  orders  from  New  York.  When  they  're 
finished,  I'm  going  back  to  France." 

Osmond  could  not  at  once  recall  himself,  even  for 
his  boy.  Peter  seemed  only  a  figure  of  the  night, 

381 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

familiarly  dear,  and  yet  unrelated  to  the  great  dream 
that  swept  across  the  sky  with  banners.  Peter  spoke 
again  bluntly. 

"  I  shall  paint  again  all  right.  You  need  n't  worry. 
It's  got  hold  of  me." 

Then  they  shook  hands. 


XXXI 

OSMOND  went  back  to  his  little  house,  not  to 
sleep,  but  to  think.  The  old  habit  of  his  life  was 
changed.  Henceforward,  whether  he  took  a  woman's 
love  or  left  it,  things  would  not  be  the  same.  Say  she 
loved  him  with  the  enduring  passion  of  a  woman  at 
her  best,  could  he  let  her  undertake  the  half  of  his 
strange  lot?  Could  he  cut  her  off  from  a  thousand 
sources  of  happiness  to  be  found  in  the  world  she  knew, 
even  though  he  forced  her  to  go  out  into  that  world  and 
sing,  and  lessened  his  claim  on  her  to  a  swallow  flight 
now  and  then  back  to  his  waiting  heart?  If  her  lot 
were  to  be  a  public  one,  she  would  have,  in  a  measure, 
to  make  it  herself ;  for  here  was  he,  with  his  plants  and 
trees,  almost  one  of  them,  and  he  could  not  give  up 
his  hardy  life,  lest  he  dwindle  and  fail  utterly.  Besides, 
this  was  his  business,  as  music  was  hers.  Whatever 
communion  they  had,  it  could  never  be  a  unison  of 
pursuits,  but  rather  an  interchange  of  rich  devotion. 
It  looked,  he  concluded,  very  bad  for  her. 

As  he  thought  that,  the  night  grew  chill,  and  the 
stars  waned  in  their  shining.  These  were  the  dull  old 
ways  of  a  world  that  had  swung  so  long  in  one  orbit 
that  it  could  never  be  otherwise.  He  was  bringing  the 
woman  to  break  bitter  bread  with  him,  and  though  she 
ate  it  cheerfully  in  the  morning  of  her  hope,  it  would 
seem  intolerable  in  the  evening,  and  at  night  she  might 
refuse  it  utterly.  What  right  had  he  to  let  her  vow  her- 

383 


ROSE  MACLEOD 

self  to  such  things  and  swell  the  list  of  proven  failure  ? 
But  say  she  loved  him !  And  after  all,  what  was  love  ? 
Was  it  the  ever-living  germ  of  desire  to  create  new  life, 
that  life  might  live  ?  Was  it  the  gift  shut  in  the  hand 
when  life  left  the  creating  source,  to  be  squandered  or 
hoarded,  to  be  used  for  honor  or  dishonor,  but  always 
ignorantly,  to  serve  the  power  behind  creation  itself? 
Was  this  beautiful  creature  the  sport  of  her  woman's 
blood,  doing  the  will  of  the  earth,  and  so  most  innocently 
walking  into  the  lure  of  his  arms  because  they  longed 
for  her?  He  wondered. 

And  his  side  of  it,  the  man's  side,  what  did  it  mean 
for  him  to  know  he  worshiped  the  divinity  of  her  beauty, 
the  sun  of  her  good  pleasure,  the  might  of  her  yielding- 
ness?  When  he  thought  of  her,  the  body  of  things 
became  mysteriously  transmuted  to  what  he  had  to 
call  their  soul,  because  it  wore  no  other  name.  There 
was  the  flame  of  passion  and  the  frost  of  awe.  The 
mystical  call  of  her  spirit  to  his  had  become  the  most 
natural  of  all  created  impulses.  Yet,  say  that  he,  too, 
was  in  the  grip  of  that  greatest  force,  and  nature  was 
tricking  the  woman  out  with  all  the  colors  of  the  dawn, 
to  blind  him  into  stumbling  along  nature's  wrays.  Did 
nature  want  him  to  say,  "This  is  Paradise,"  until  she 
was  ready  to  let  him  know  it  was  the  unchanged  earth  ? 
If  it  was  all  a  gigantic  phenomenon  of  a  teeming  uni 
verse —  well,  it  was  good.  It  was  to  be  worshiped  as 
the  savage  worships  the  sun :  but  not  greatly.  For  clouds 
hide  the  sun,  and,  in  spite  of  it,  men  die.  Better  not 
spill  too  much  blood  for  a  savage  god  that  gives  but 
savage  recompense.  And,  thinking  so,  he  closed  his 

384 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

eyes  and  lapsed  into  a  dull  recognition  of  the  things  of 
earth. 

How  far  his  mind  had  rushed  upon  its  track  he  did 
not  know,  but  suddenly  it  came  to  a  stop  and  jolted 
him  awake.  It  was  as  if  he  had  come  to  a  great  gulf, 
the  darkness  girdling  the  natural  life,  and  across  it  were 
the  colors  of  the  dawn.  They  breathed  and  wavered  in 
sheer  beauty.  And  at  that  moment  there  began  in  him 
the  fainting  recognition  of  what  love  might  be  if  men 
would  have  it  so.  First,  there  was  the  lure,  the  voice 
of  the  creature  calling  to  its  mate.  Then  there  was  the 
unveiling  of  the  soul,  the  recognition,  the  sight  of  the 
soul  as  God  sees  it,  so  that  the  two  creatures  can  only 
breathe,  "How  beautiful  you  are!"  And  that  must 
not  continue,  because  the  soul  is  a  delicate  though  an 
indestructible  thing,  and  cannot  walk  naked  through 
the  assaults  of  time.  It  would  consume  the  beholder; 
it  would  even  scorch  under  the  flame  of  its  own  being. 
It  withdraws,  only  to  appear  again,  like  the  god  from 
the  brake,  when  it  is  greatly  summoned.  But  always 
it  is  there,  and  the  two  that  hold  high  fealty  remember 
what  they  have  seen.  When  the  flame  sinks,  they  say: 
"But  it  is  the  flame  on  the  altar.  It  must  not  die." 
So  they  renew  it.  When  the  outer  habit  of  life  fails 
in  one  of  them,  to  grow  poor  and  mean,  the  other  re 
members  that  one  glimpse  of  the  soul,  and  calls  upon  it 
tenderly. 

"Revive,"  says  his  patient  love,  "I  stay  you  with 
the  flagons  of  my  hope,  I  comfort  you  with  the  apples 
of  my  great  belief."  And  always  it  is  an  interchange 
of  life,  the  one  feeding  the  other  with  eternal  succor. 

385 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

And  now,  to  come  back  to  the  old  question :  Say  a 
woman  loved  a  man  like  this  man.  Osmond  seemed 
not  to  be  debating  now,  but  hastening  along  the  thread 
of  a  perfect  certainty.  Something  had  put  a  clue  in  his 
hand.  Wherever  it  might  lead  him,  he  was  running 
fast.  It  came  upon  him,  like  the  lighting  of  a  great  fire, 
that  this  was  a  call  for  high  emprise.  He  loved  nothing 
so  much  as  courage.  Here  was  the  summons  to  the 
world-old  battle  where  all  but  a  few  fail  and  none 
are  said  to  succeed  unless  they  die  for  passion  and  so 
life  drops  a  curtain  on  the  after-fight.  The  great  lovers 
—  chiefly  they  are  those  for  whom  the  fight  never  was 
finished,  who  chose  death  rather  than  endure.  He  had 
bitten  his  teeth  all  his  life  on  the  despair  of  adventure, 
but  now  it  came  upon  him  that  life  itself  is  the  great 
adventure,  and  love  the  crown  of  it.  Say  he,  loving  a 
woman,  went  out  to  fight  the  dragons  of  the  way.  He 
had  no  armor  such  as  youth  delights  in.  He  was  not  a 
Prince  Charming,  who  wooes  the  eye  even  before  he 
speaks.  He  had  only  the  one  treasure  —  love.  Say  he 
crowned  the  woman  with  it,  and  then  challenged  God 
to  give  their  hungers  food,  be  the  unseen  combatant 
and  fight  out  the  fight  beside  them?  Say  he  vowed 
himself  like  a  knight  to  her  service,  and  their  mutual 
worship  scorned  the  body  save  as  the  instrument  of 
life,  and  glorified  the  soul  ?  "  I  am  the  soul,"  something 
cried  out  in  him.  "  Do  not  deny  me,  or  you  blaspheme 
the  God  that  also  lives.  Give  me  food,  the  large  liberty 
to  be  faithful.  Lay  bonds  upon  me,  patience  and  loy 
alty,  and  I  shall  rejoice  in  them  and  grow  strong  enough 
to  break  them,  and  delight  in  perfect  liberty." 

386 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

It  all  resolved  itself,  he  found,  into  this  question  of 
the  soul.  Was  the  marvel  true?  Did  it  really  exist? 
For  if  it  did,  it  must  have  food  and  cherishing.  Inev 
itably  then  he  thought  of  grannie,  and  his  struggling 
mind  seemed  to  appeal  to  her  clarity,  question  and 
answer,  and  to  every  question  she  smiled  and  told  him 
the  dream  was  true.  It  did  live,  this  mystery,  this  im 
perishable  one  that  came  from  the  bosom  of  God  and 
would  return  in  safety  there. 

Osmond  rose,  in  the  dewy  midnight,  and  stretched 
his  arms  to  heaven.  He  felt  what  he  never  had  before, 
in  his  iron  acquiescence,  an  ecstasy  of  worship.  This 
was  what  grannie  felt,  he  knew ;  it  was  the  daily  draught 
that  kept  her  spirit  young.  He  made  no  doubt  she  was 
praying  for  him  at  that  moment,  and  that  their  buoyant 
certainties  were  meeting  in  the  air  of  quickened  life. 
Hitherto  he  had  walked.  Now  he  saw  the  use  of  wings. 

He  knew  what  Rose  was  doing.  She  would  not  be 
waking.  She  would  be  lying  in  her  bed  asleep,  too  secure 
in  her  glad  confidence  to  wonder  over  it.  Another 
thought  swept  in  and  awoke  his  quivering  sentience 
to  the  marvel  of  his  life.  Some  recognition  of  the  cher 
ishing  maternal  seemed  to  grow  in  him,  and  as  grannie 
had  saved  his  body  for  him,  so  now  Rose  seemed  to 
have  given  birth  to  his  new  soul.  It  was  like  a  shining 
child.  With  his  bodily  eyes  he  almost  saw  it  through 
the  dark,  and  he  longed  to  take  it  in  his  arms  to  where 
she  slept  and  lay  it  on  her  breast.  He  could  fancy  how 
the  shining  child  would  lie  there  and  how,  sleeping, 
her  sweet  soul  would  cherish  it.  And  whether  he  began 
the  next  day  with  the  resolve  to  give  her  up  or  to  relin- 

387 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

quish  his  own  doubts,  at  least  he  had  had  the  vision. 
As  the  dawn  broke  he  seemed  to  see  her  coming  toward 
him,  the  spirit  of  it,  rosy-clad,  bearing  in  her  hands, 
outstretched,  a  beaker  for  his  lips.  It  was  the  water  of 
life,  and  her  face  besought  him  to  know  finally  that 
they  were  to  drink  of  it  together.  He  was  shaken  with 
the  wonder  of  it.  All  his  past  had  been  preparing  him 
for  ignominy  and  loss.  He  trembled  when  he  saw  what 
the  girl  in  the  vision  meant:  that  the  greater  quest  is 
farther  yet. 


XXXII 

MADAM  Fulton  and  Electra  were  busy,  each  in 
her  own  track,  making  ready  to  go.  Electra 
was  truly  concerned  because  grandmother  had  fallen 
into  this  frenzy  of  setting  her  belongings  in  order  and 
would  even  fly  up  to  town  to  her  little  apartment,  on 
mysterious  errands.  But  Madam  Fulton  was  as  gayly 
confident  as  she  was  inscrutable,  and  even  when  Billy 
Stark  warned  her  that  she  was  doing  too  much,  she 
only  whispered,  — 

"Got  the  tickets,  Lochinvar?" 

On  the  last  day,  when  the  house  was  partly  closed 
and  the  servants  lingered  only  for  an  hour  or  two, 
Electra,  ready  to  her  gloves,  came  to  kiss  her  grand 
mother  good-by.  Madam  Fulton  drew  back  a  pace 
and  looked  at  her. 

"Electra,"  said  she,  "you'll  be  horribly  shocked 
and  you'll  want  to  laugh  at  me.  But  don't  you  do  it. 
Don't  you  do  either  of  those  two  things." 

Electra's  brows  came  together  in  a  perplexity  that 
yet  betokened  only  a  tepid  interest.  Her  own  affairs 
were  too  insistent.  They  crowded  out  the  pale,  dim 
hopes  of  age. 

"When,  grandmother?"  she  asked.  "Why  should  I 
want  to  laugh  ?  " 

"Never  mind.  But  you  will.  And  when  you  do,  you 
say  to  yourself  that,  after  all,  youth  and  age  are  just 
about  the  same,  only  age  has  tested  many  things  and 

389 


ROSE  MACLEOD 

found  they're  no  good.  So  if  it  finds  something  that 
seems  good  —  well,  Electra,  you're  off  on  your  fool's 
errand.  Don't  you  deny  other  folks  the  comfort  of 
theirs." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  grandmother." 

"No,  of  course  you  don't.  But  you  will.  Once  I 
should  n't  have  cared  whether  you  did  or  not,  but  I've 
taken  a  kind  of  a  liking  to  you.  I  told  you  I  should 
when  you  turned  human  and  made  a  fool  of  yourself 
like  the  rest  of  us.  And  now  you're  going  out  into  the 
wilderness,  to  found  a  city  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"I  am  going  to  help  the  Brotherhood,"  said  Electra, 
with  punctilious  truth. 

"And  build  a  monument  to  that  handsome  scamp 
that  had  the  bad  taste  to  come  over  here  to  die." 

"  Grandmother,  you  must  not  use  such  words." 

"Must  not?  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  a  scamp 
when  I  see  one  ?  If  I'd  been  fifty  years  younger,  I  dare 
say  I  should  be  starting  out  to  build  him  a  monument, 
too.  But  I'm  glad  of  it,  child,  I'm  glad  of  it.  He's  your 
preserver.  He  has  roused  in  you  the  capacity  for  being 
a  fool.  Make  much  of  it.  Prize  it.  It's  God's  most 
blessed  gift  to  man.  When  you've  lost  that,  you've  lost 
everything." 

"There  is  the  carriage,  grandmother.   I  must  go." 

Madam  Fulton  presented  a  kindly  cheek. 

"  Good-by,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  I 'm  sorry  I 've  har 
ried  you.  I  had  to,  though.  I  should  again.  Now  we '11 
meet  in  Paris,  or  London  —  or  another  world." 

Electra,  a  perfect  picture  of  the  well-equipped  trav 
eler,  in  her  beautiful  suit,  her  erect  pose,  was  at  the  door, 

390 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"The  maids  will  go  in  an  hour,"  she  said.  "Then 
you've  only  to  turn  the  key  and  walk  over  to  Mrs. 
Grant's.  I  wish  you'd  had  your  trunks  taken  out 
before." 

"My  trunks  can  wait,"  chuckled  the  old  lady. 
"They'll  be  sent  for." 

As  Electra's  carriage  turned  from  the  driveway  into 
the  road,  Madam  Fulton  laughed  again. 

Electra  had  five  minutes  at  the  station,  and  there 
appeared  Peter,  wearing  the  air  of  haste.  He  had  been 
painting  in  the  garden,  when  the  carriage  went  by,  and 
he  had  dropped  brush  and  palette  to  run.  Why,  Peter 
could  not  have  said,  only  it  seemed  cold  and  miserable 
to  have  an  imperial  lady  taking  the  train  alone  and 
then  setting  sail  with  no  one  by. 

"You  would  n't  let  me  go  up  to  town  with  you  ?"  he 
ventured,  with  his  eager  stammer. 

"No,"  returned  Electra,  "thank  you." 

"I'd  like  to  awfully,"  said  Peter.  "Maybe  I  could 
be  of  use." 

"Everything  is  done.  My  luggage  is  on  board.  We 
sail  at  three." 

"It  seems  an  infernally  lonesome  thing  to  do!" 

Electra  smiled.  She  had  gained  that  smile  of  late. 
It  was  a  subtle  indication  of  the  secret  knowledge  she 
had  of  the  resources  of  her  own  future.  With  a  perfect 
and  simple  conviction,  she  believed  she  should  be  guided 
by  Markham  MacLeod  or  some  unseen  genius  of  his 
life.  She  should  follow  his  star.  She  should  know  where 
to  go. 

"Rose  said  you  did  n't  take  the  letters  she  offered 
391 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

you.  Is  that  wise,  Electra?  If  you  want  to  know  the 
Brotherhood—" 

"  I  shall  know  it,"  said  Electra,  with  entire  simplicity. 
"The  way  will  open." 

She  did  not  say  that  she  could  not  bear  to  blur  her 
secret  by  sharing  it  overmuch  with  any  one.  She  was 
going  on  a  mission  for  the  chief.  Other  voices  would 
confuse  the  message.  The  medium  must  be  kept  clari 
fied  between  his  soul  and  hers.  Peter  stood  back,  feeling, 
in  another  form,  Madam  Fulton's  hopeless  admiration 
of  this  magnificent  futility. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  shall  be  there  in  the  late  autumn, 
and  I  shall  find  you." 

"I  may  not,"  said  Electra  decisively,  "want  to  be 
found." 

But  when  he  thought  of  the  elements  into  which  she 
meant  to  hurl  herself,  he  was  of  the  opinion  that  she 
would  as  gladly  long  to  be  found  as  the  maiden  in  the 
arena  before  the  beasts  walked  in.  Then  the  train 
came,  and  she  bade  him  a  civil  and  correct  good-by 
and  was  taken  away. 

Peter  went  home  wondering,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 
Life  seemed  to  resolve  itself,  not  into  the  harmonious 
end  of  tragedy,  but  into  more  tragedy.  Human  things, 
when  a  solution  was  reached,  deliberately  began  a  new 
act.  Peter  had  the  childlike  egoism  of  the  very  religious 
or  the  devotee  of  art.  He  never  could  help  feeling  that, 
in  a  way,  the  world  was  created  for  him.  Its  fortuitous 
happenings  strengthened  that  belief.  He  had  come 
home  to  lose  Electra  whom  he  did  not  love.  Markham 
MacLeod,  who,  he  now  saw,  had  been  too  bright  a  sun, 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

blinding  his  eyes  to  his  own  proper  work,  had  been 
removed.  Perhaps  that,  too,  was  done  for  him.  And 
now  he  should  paint  his  pictures.  The  Brotherhood  still 
seemed  far  off  and,  if  not  vain,  at  least  a  clamorous  sea 
of  discontent,  the  hope  of  a  palace  beautiful  beyond  the 
touch  of  time.  But  near  him  were  dear  and  intimate 
things :  the  feel  of  the  brush  in  his  fingers,  the  adorable 
combination  of  colors  as  delirious  as  the  sunsets  God 
could  make.  And  in  the  future  there  were  men  and 
women  who  also  would  go  singing  along  the  path  to 
perfect  pictures  and  leafy  glades.  In  them  was  infinite 
possibility  of  more  pleasure,  more  delight.  And  there 
was  his  broken  heart !  For  Peter's  heart  was  truly 
broken.  That  he  knew.  He  had  lost  Rose,  for  she  had 
gravely  told  him  so,  and  given  the  simple  reason,  if  he 
needed  it.  There  was  no  man  for  her  but  one.  And 
the  one  was  Osmond,  to  whom  he  would  gladly  relin 
quish  even  the  delight  of  her.  So,  thinking  of  his  bro 
ther  who  was  the  best  thing  born,  of  his  broken  heart, 
of  his  pictures  and  the  general  adorableness  of  the 
world,  crammed  full  of  things  to  paint,  Peter  threw  his 
stick  into  the  air,  caught  it,  and  burst  into  song. 

When  the  maids  had  left,  after  their  good-by  to 
Madam  Fulton,  giving  the  keys  into  her  hand,  she  sat 
awhile  in  the  silent  house,  and  took  a  comfortable  nap. 
It  was  amazing,  she  thought,  as  she  sank  off,  what  a 
lessening  of  tension  it  was  to  have  Electra  gone.  When 
she  awoke,  it  was  still  quiet  and  Billy  Stark  had  not 
come.  He  was  to  run  down  from  town,  his  last  prepara 
tions  made;  the  country  minister  was  to  meet  them  at 

393 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

the  Grant  house,  and  there  they  would  be  married. 
Then  they  would  take  the  late  afternoon  train,  and,  in 
due  course,  sail  for  Liverpool.  Even  Bessie  Grant  did 
not  guess  they  were  to  be  married;  but  she,  Madam 
Fulton  knew,  was  ready  for  the  last  trump  and  welcom 
ing  evangels,  and  that  prepared  her  for  all  lesser  things. 

It  seemed  a  little  chilly  in  the  house,  shut  up  as  it 
was  for  the  flitting,  all  except  the  room  where  Madam 
Fulton  sat,  and  she  took  her  chair  out  of  doors,  not 
pausing  on  the  veranda,  but  going  on  to  the  garden 
beds.  It  would  be  pleasant,  she  thought,  to  sit  there  in 
the  sun  with  the  bees  humming  on  their  way,  and  take 
her  last  look  at  the  place.  As  well  as  she  knew  she  was 
going  to  leave  it,  she  knew  she  should  return  to  it  no 
more.  It  was  not  only  that  her  age  made  it  improbable, 
—  for  she  had  no  doubt  of  Billy's  ability  to  run  over  a 
dozen  times  yet ;  it  was  some  inward  certainty  that  told 
her  she  was  going  for  good.  It  pleased  her  in  every 
way.  She  liked  new  peoples  and  untried  lands. 

Yet,  as  she  sat  there,  old  faces  crowded  upon  her, 
and  they  were  pleasant  to  behold.  Her  husband  was 
not  there.  With  his  death  he  seemed  to  have  with 
drawn  into  a  remote  place  where  no  .summons  could 
reach  him,  even  if  she  wished  to  call.  And  she  had 
never  wished  it.  But  these  were  faces  scarcely  remem 
bered  in  her  daytime  mood,  very  clear  in  the  sunlight 
and  with  no  possibility  of  mistake.  One  was  like  her 
own,  only  where  hers  sparkled  with  irony  and  discontent, 
this  was  softer  and  more  sweet.  "  Why,"  said  Madam 
Fulton  aloud,  "mother !"  It  gave  her  no  surprise.  No 
thing  seemed  disturbing  in  this  calm  world,  where 

394 


ROSE    MACLEOD 

things  were  throbbing  warmly  and,  she  knew7  at  last, 
for  the  general  good.  Then  she  reflected  that  this  was 
probably  the  effect  of  happiness  because  she  was  going 
to  marry  Billy  Stark.  It  must  be  love,  she  thought, 
instead  of  their  gay  friendship.  Youth  and  age  were 
perhaps  not  so  unlike  after  all,  when  one  shut  one's 
eyes  and  sat  in  the  garden  in  the  sun. 

Billy  Stark  faded  out  of  her  musings,  and  the  for 
gotten  faces  came  the  more  clearly,  all  smiling,  all 
bearing  a  mysterious  benediction.  She  found  herself 
recalling  old  memories  with  them,  doings  that  had  been 
once  of  great  importance,  but  of  later  years  had  been 
packed  into  the  rubbish  hole  of  childish  things.  There 
was  the  summer  day  when  she  had  lost  the  stolen  prism 
from  the  parlor  lamp,  and  mother  had  looked  at  her 
gravely  for  a  moment  and  then  smiled,  seeing  that 
tears  were  coming,  and  said  it  was  no  matter.  Mother 
had  never  known  that  the  tears  were  all  for  the  loss  of 
the  red  and  blue  lights  in  the  prism,  and  somehow  her 
kindness  had  not  mattered  then,  because  it  could  not 
bring  the  colors  back.  But  now  it  seemed  to  the  old 
lady  in  the  garden  that  mother  had  been  very  kind 
indeed.  "Don't  mind  it,"  the  sweet  face  seemed  to  be 
saying.  "Don't  mind  anything."  And  as  she  listened, 
she  was  restored  to  the  pleasant  usages  of  some  morning 
land  where  one  could  be  reassured  in  a  blest  authority 
that  made  it  so. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  that  she  sat  there  in  this  pleas 
ant  company,  so  far  removed  from  the  conditions  of  her 
own  life  that  it  was  actually,  at  moments,  as  if  she  were 
in  another  country.  But  forms  began  to  fade,  and, 

395 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

mingled  with  their  going,  was  the  sense  that  another 
personality  was  thrusting  itself  into  their  circle,  and, 
being  more  solid  than  they,  was  pushing  them  out. 
Billy  Stark  was  calling,  in  his  kindly  tone,  — 

"Florrie!  wake  up,  child." 

Her  eyes  came  open. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that's  what  mother  was  just  call 
ing  me."  She  winked,  and  rubbed  her  eyes.  "  My  stars, 
Billy,"  said  she,  "I've  been  dreaming." 

Billy  pulled  up  a  garden  chair.  He  looked  at  her 
with  a  tender  consideration.  Florrie  was  pretty  tired, 
he  thought.  She  had  worn  herself  out  with  these  forced 
hurryings.  Now  he  had  no  doubts  about  his  ability 
to  take  care  of  her,  or  his  wish  to  do  it.  Billy  was  one 
who,  having  made  up  his  mind  to  a  thing,  cast  care 
behind  him,  and  if  it  climbed  up  on  the  saddle-bow, 
he  promptly  knocked  it  off  again.  That  was  why  he 
proposed  to  be  hearty  for  twenty  years  to  come. 

"Shall  we  turn  the  key  in  the  door,  and  be  poking 
over  to  Bessie  Grant's?"  he  asked.  "We'll  call  here 
for  your  trunks,  on  the  way  to  the  train." 

"By  and  by,  Billy."  She  leaned  her  head  on  the 
chair  back,  and  regarded  him  with  her  friendly  smile. 
"I  have  n't  waked  up  yet.  What  time  is  it?" 

"Five  minutes  before  three." 

"No!   Electra'll  be  sailing  in  five  minutes." 

"And  in  half  an  hour,  the  reverend  parson  will  be 
waiting  for  us  at  Bessie  Grant's." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  let  me  sit  a  minute,  Billy.  I  had 
the  most  extraordinary  dream." 

"Last  night?" 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"No,  no.  Sitting  here  in  the  sun.  And  yet  I  did  n't 
think  I'd  slept  a  wink.  Billy,  do  you  remember  the 
day  mother  stood  me  in  the  corner  for  going  fishing 
with  you,  and  then,  when  she  found  you'd  stood  your 
self  in  the  other  corner,  she  laughed  and  gave  us 
cookies  ?  " 

"Seems  to  me  I  do.   I'd  forgotten,  though." 

"  So  had  I.  I  had  n't  thought  of  it  for  years.  Then 
there  was  the  time  Jeanie  Lake  was  married  and  they 
found  out  he'd  deceived  that  girl  over  in  the  next  town 
ship,  and  Jeanie  died  of  a  broken  heart." 

"  What  makes  you  think  of  it  now,  Florrie  ? " 

"  I  remember  so  well  how  Jeanie  looked  through  the 
weeks  she  was  fading  out,  before  she  died.  I  remember 
I  thought  I  should  n't  have  taken  it  so.  I'd  have  struck 
him  on  his  lying  mouth  and  lived  to  love  another  man. 
But  Jeanie  looks  exactly  like  herself  now." 

"You've  been  dreaming,  Florrie,"  said  the  old  man 
anxiously. 

"Did  n't  I  tell  you  I'd  been  dreaming?  I  saw  them 
in  crowds.  Don't  you  hurry  me,  Billy.  Let's  sit  here 
a  minute  and  talk  about  old  times."  She  blinked  her 
eyes  awake  again  and  looked  at  him  reassuringly.  "  You 
mustn't  think  I  don't  want  to  go,  Billy.  I  do.  I'm 
a  little  tired,  but  I'm  all  keyed  up  to  go.  I'm  perfectly 
sure  we  shall  have  a  lovely  time,  —  the  loveliest  time 
that  ever  was." 

"The  voyage  will  do  you  good,"  he  said,  in  the  same 
affectionate  concern.  "The  maid  will  meet  us  on  the 
pier.  And  once  in  London,  you'll  be  the  centre  of  the 
crowd." 

397 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Fancy!  And  Electra  shall  come  over  from  Paris, 
and  you  '11  make  love  to  me,  to  shock  her.  Billy,  is  n't 
it  queer  I  did  n't  dream  of  Charlie  Grant  this  morning  ?  " 

"Why,  Florrie?   Why  should  you?" 

"Because  they  were  all  there,  crowds  of  them  I 
have  n't  told  you  about.  But  not  he.  I  suppose  he  was 
with  Bessie  Grant.  Billy,  it  was  when  I  gave  him  up, 
my  life  went  wrong." 

"Yes,  dear,  you  told  me  so." 

"It  was  n't  that  I  could  n't  bear  to  lose  him.  I  never 
broke  my  heart.  It  was  because  I  made  a  bad  choice,  — 
a  bad  choice.  I  said  deliberately  I  wanted  the  world 
and  the  things  the  world  can  give.  Everything  began 
when  I  gave  him  up." 

"Time's  going,  Florrie.    The  parson  will  be  there." 

"Yes.  Don't  hurry  me.  Do  you  suppose  we  find 
things  because  we  believe  in  them  ? " 

"What  things,  dear?" 

"  Will  Bessie  Grant  have  heaven  because  she  believes 
in  it  ?  Will  she  find  him  because  she  thinks  he's  there  ?" 

"Come,  dear,  wake  up." 

"Well!"  The  old  lady  roused  herself.  The  light 
came  back  to  her  eyes,  the  old  smile  to  her  lips. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Billy,"  said  she,  "there's  one 
thing  I  swear  I  never  will  forget.  Living  or  dying,  I 
never  will." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  never '11  forget  you  saw  me  an  old  woman  and 
treated  me  like  a  young  one.  I  never '11  forget  you  did 
your  best  to  bring  back  my  lost  youth.  And  if  there 
is  a  heaven  and  I  set  foot  in  it,  and  they  bring  up  their 

398 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

archangels,  I'll  say,  'Away  with  you  and   your  fine 
company.   Where's  Billy  Stark?" 

But  the  light  faded  as  she  spoke  and  her  face  changed 
mysteriously,  in  a  way  he  did  not  like.  A  clever  thought 
came  to  him. 

"Florrie,"  said  he,  "have  you  had  your  luncheon?" 

"I  guess  not." 

"  Have  you  been  sitting  here  ever  since  Electra  went, 
dreaming  and  starving?" 

"  I  guess  so." 

"Well,  that's  it.  Now  you  get  on  your  two  feet  and 
take  my  arm  and  come  over  to  Bessie  Grant's.  And 
she'll  give  you  food  and  coffee.  Bless  us,  Florrie,  we're 
not  going  to  own  we  miss  Electra's  patent  foods  as 
early  in  the  game  as  this!" 

She  smiled  at  him.  "I  believe  I  am  hungry,  Billy," 
she  owned.  "That  's  why  I  had  my  dream.  They 
always  have  visions  fasting.  But  it  was  a  beautiful 
dream.  I  wish  I  could  have  it  again." 

"You  wait  a  minute,  I'm  going  to  get  you  a  nip  of 
brandy."  She  was  rising,  and  he  put  her  back  into  her 
chair.  "I  know  where  it  is."  He  hurried  down  the 
path,  but  her  voice  recalled  him  sharply. 

"Billy,  come  back.   Don't  leave  me." 

He  returned  to  her,  where  she  had  risen  and  was 
standing  tremulously.  That  same  dire  change  was  on 
her  face,  as  if  old  age  had  passed  a  sponge  over  it.  Her 
eyes  regarded  him,  in  a  keen  questioning. 

"What  is  it,  Billy?"  she  whispered.  "What's  com 
ing?"  He  put  her  into  her  chair,  and  she  said  again, 
"Don't  leave  me." 

399 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"I  must."  There  were  tears  in  his  kind  eyes.  "Let 
me  go  one  minute,  dear.  I'll  get  you  something." 

But  her  frail  hand  detained  him. 

"Sit  down,  Billy,"  she  was  whispering.  "No,  kneel 
—  there  —  where  I  can  see  you.  Keep  hold  of  me." 

He  knelt  at  her  feet,  and  she  bowed  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder.  He  put  her  back  gently  into  her  chair,  again 
with  the  determination  to  get  the  brandy ;  but  her  face 
forbade  him. 

"Florrie!"  he  called  loudly. 

No  one  answered.  With  the  keenness  of  the  shocked 
intelligence,  summoned  to  record  the  smallest  things 
with  the  same  faithfulness  as  the  large,  he  noted  how 
the  bees  were  humming  in  the  garden.  He  and  the  bees 
were  alive,  but  his  old  friend  was  dead. 


XXXIII 

IN  the  hushed  interval  after  Madam  Fulton  had 
died  and  Billy  Stark  had  gone  away  sadly,  knowing 
he  should  return  to  America  no  more,  Osmond  went 
to  find  Rose.  He  had  seen  her  briefly,  in  the  common 
ways  of  life,  but  it  was  evident  to  her  that  they  were 
not  to  meet  alone.  Perhaps  his  mind  had  fixed  itself 
inexorably  against  her,  she  thought,  and  he  meant  to 
see  her  only  to  say  good -by.  But  even  that  contented 
her,  if  it  must  be.  The  splendor  of  their  understanding 
abode  with  her  and  made  his  will  seem  easy.  When 
the  tide  of  new  love  went  down,  it  would  be  another 
thing;  but  now  it  was  at  the  flood,  and  the  light  of 
heaven  shone  in  it. 

He  came  walking  through  the  garden,  and  she  saw 
him  come.  Grannie  sat  out  there  among  the  holly 
hocks,  waiting  for  Peter.  He  had  left  his  painting  to 
bring  her  a  glass  of  water  from  the  house,  and  she 
rested  in  a  somnolent  calm.  Grannie  liked  the  sunshine, 
and  to-day  it  was  opulent  and  flooding.  To  Osmond, 
looking  at  her  as  he  came,  her  serenity  seemed  even 
majestic.  She  had  forgotten  the  world,  he  saw,  and  a 
smile  brooded  upon  her  face,  that  face  where  no  evil 
passions  had  ever  dwelt,  and  where  peace  had  lain  like 
a  visible  sign  for  many  years.  As  he  passed  her  portrait, 
he  glanced  at  it  in  proud  wonder  because  Peter  had 
done  it.  To  Osmond  it  looked  complete  as  it  was,  and 
he  found  it  another  and  only  less  beautiful  grannie  in  the 

401 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

garden,  with  an  added  touch  of  life  upon  the  face, 
something  that  did  not  lie  there  every  day.  It  was  a 
shade  of  sadness  in  the  midst  of  the  tranquillity,  as  if 
grannie  also,  in  spite  of  her  calm,  had  known  great 
hungers.  It  tempered  her  childlike  quality  and  made 
what  might  be  called  her  character  as  enduring  as 
time  that  had  wrought  it.  She  opened  her  eyes,  when 
he  neared  her,  and  her  smile  came,  the  one  that  was 
for  him  alone  and  never  failed  him. 

"What  were  you  thinking  about,  grannie?"  he  asked 
her. 

"A  good  many  things,"  she  said.  "Florrie  and  poor 
Billy  Stark." 

"You'll  miss  her,  grannie!" 

"Not  long,  son.  And  I'm  very  glad  she's  gone. 
Florrie  never  was  one  to  bear  old  age.  She'd  have  had 
to  meet  it  soon!" 

Osmond  smiled  tenderly  at  the  ingenuous  implication, 
but  then  he  bethought  him  it  was  true.  Madam  Fulton 
never  had  been  old.  Grannie  put  out  her  hand  to  his. 

"I've  been  thinking  of  you,  son,  all  the  morning.  I 
hoped  you'd  come." 

"Yes,  grannie.   I  could  n't  come  before." 

"No.   You  look  like  a  new  man." 

"I  am  a  new  man,  grannie." 

He  gave  the  kind  hand  a  little  tight  grasp,  and  left 
her.  Peter  was  coming  with  the  glass  of  water,  and 
Peter,  too,  had  a  morning  light  on  his  face,  only  his  was 
the  look  of  the  maker  who  sees  the  vision  of  fulfillment. 

"Good  picture,  Pete,"  said  Osmond. 

Peter  nodded  in  entire  acquiescence. 
402 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"I  don't  know  what  grannie  looks  like,"  he  said. 
He  was  gazing  into  the  glass  of  water,  as  if  it  were  a 
crystal  and  he  could  find  the  answer  there.  "  I  've  been 
trying  to  think.  Like  a  baby  —  with  a  sort  of  inno 
cence  —  like  a  fate,  a  kind  one,  —  like  the  earth  god 
dess.  If  I've  put  in  all  I  see,  it's  a  corker." 

"It's  the  mother  look,"  said  Osmond.  "But  it  is  a 
corker,  safe  enough." 

They  parted  with  a  nod,  but  Peter  stopped. 

"Hear  that!"  he  said. 

Rose  was  singing.  The  song  began  so  triumphantly, 
with  such  dash  and  splendor,  that  it  was  almost  like 
improvising.  Osmond  felt  it  like  a  call.  He  went  on 
to  the  house,  and  Peter,  after  that  moment  of  listening, 
also  kept  on  the  way  that  took  him  to  his  work.  He,  too, 
walked  with  quickened  step,  and  there  was  light  in  his 
eyes.  All  the  vibrations  of  his  being  quickened  to  the 
song;  but  he  was  thinking  what  a  stunning  world  it 
was  to  have  such  things  in  it:  paint  and  canvas  and 
disturbing  songs  and  broken  hearts.  The  song  ceased 
suddenly.  He  knew  why.  Osmond  had  gone  into  the 
room  and  Rose  had  met  him.  Peter  sighed.  Then  he 
laughed,  took  grannie's  empty  glass  from  her,  and  sat 
down  to  work. 

"It's  a  funny  world,  grannie,"  he  remarked. 

Grannie  smiled  at  him.  She  understood  him  also, 
though  he  was  not  in  her  heart  as  Osmond  was. 

"You  like  your  work,  don't  you,  Peter?"  she  re 
marked.  "It's  just  the  right  thing  for  you." 

Peter  plunged  at  it. 

"It's  the  best  thing  out,"  he  affirmed.  "It's  the  top 
403 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

bubble  on  the  biggest  wave."  Then  he  too,  because 
the  song  had  ceased,  began  one  on  his  own  account, 
with  an  inward  rueful  apology  to  his  broken  heart. 
For  the  song  should  have  been  a  sad  one,  but  Peter 
could  not  paint  when  the  vibrations  lagged,  and  so  he 
made  it  gay. 

Osmond  followed  the  voice,  and  met  Rose  in  the 
sitting-room,  where  she  stood  waiting  for  him.  She 
wore  a  morning  gown  of  demure  dimity,  with  a  little 
ruffle  about  her  singing  throat.  When  she  saw  him,  she 
laughed,  for  no  reason.  Then  she  blushed.  For  Os 
mond  was  not  the  same.  He  came  up  to  her  and  took 
her  hands. 

"You  don't  look  like  a  goddess,"  he  said. 

They  were  smiling  at  each  other  out  of  an  equal  hope. 

"I'm  not  a  goddess.   I'm  just  girl." 

"Not  a  terrible  Parisian?" 

She  looked  down  at  her  dress,  that  had  wrought  the 
simplicity. 

"I  put  it  on  for  you,"  she  said.  "You  did  n't  like 
my  chiffons  that  other  night." 

"How  did  you  know  I  should  come?" 

"You  knew  it.  Why  should  n't  I-know  it?  Are  the 
wires  down?" 

Then,  by  one  impulse,  they  began  to  walk  back  and 
forth  through  the  room,  hand  in  hand,  like  children. 

"  You  go  next  week,"  he  said ,  although  he  knew  she  did . 

"Yes." 

"When  do  you  come  back?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  race  through  all  the  business  there. 
In  a  month,  I  hope  —  perhaps  less." 

404 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

"Shall  you  come  straight  here?" 

"  I  may  stay  a  day  or  two  in  New  York.  I  shall  bring 
letters.  I  shall  try  to  get  a  footing  there." 

"I  will  meet  you  in  New  York.  Grannie  has  folks 
there.  I'll  take  you  to  them." 

It  was  a  different  man  that  spoke,  decisive,  dominat 
ing.  She  flushed  in  keen  delight.  They  stopped  at  the 
window  and  looked  out  on  the  garden  beds,  in  that 
tranquil  summer  hush,  all  growth  and  bloom.  He  drew 
her  hand  to  his  lips  and  spoke  intemperately. 

"What  a  fool  I  was  to  come  by  day!" 

"Why,  Osmond?" 

"I  wanted  it  to  be  by  day,  with  no  glamour  round 
us,  to  make  you  judge,  accept,  reject  things  as  they  are. 
But  now  I  need  the  night  to  help  me."  She  was  a 
picture  of  breathing  happiness.  He  forgot  his  part. 
"Rose,"  he  cried,  "it's  love  between  us!" 

"It's  love,"  she  answered. 

"I  came  to  tell  you  the  past  is  past.  It's  not  to  be 
remembered.  Not  a  doubt !  not  a  fear!  not  even  a  fear 
for  you.  You 're  not  to  love  a  co ward.  I  won't  have  that. 
Will  you  take  me,  make  what  you  can  of  me?" 

The  light  on  their  faces  spoke  without  their  will. 

"I'm  not  going  to  mark  it  down,"  he  said.  "I'm 
not  going  to  say  it  is  n't  worthy  of  you.  It's  going  to 
be,  the  sort  the  big  lovers  died  for.  I  have  looked  the 
thing  in  the  face.  I  adore  it.  I  'm  going  where  it  leads 
me." 

She  calmed  as  he  grew  fervid. 

"Sit  down,  Osmond,"  she  said.  "We  must  talk. 
There  are  n't  many  days  to  talk  in." 

405 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

But  as  he  sat,  he  kept  her  hand. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why  I've  been  staying  away  from 
you?"  he  asked. 

"If  you  want  to.   But  I  know." 

"  You  don't  know  the  half.  I  have  had  to  conquer  all 
sorts  of  fears,  chiefly  for  you.  For  me  it 's  nothing.  I'd 
rather  have  one  minute  of  you  and  lose  you  to-morrow 
than  not  to  have  had  you.  But  for  you!"  A  wistful 
shade  fell  upon  his  face.  "My  own  dear  child!"  he 
mused.  "It  must  be  well  for  you." 

"It  will  be  well." 

"It  shall.  It's  a  great  adventure,  Rose.  It's  a  big 
challenge  —  the  biggest.  I  promise  you  — " 

"No!  no!" 

"Yes.  I  promise  you  my  undying  faith.  And  I  won't 
be  a  coward." 

She  was  looking  at  him,  smiling. 

"You're  a  darling  lover,"  she  said.  "Such  pretty 
words!" 

Then  they  laughed. 

"This  is  nothing  to  what  I  can  do,"  said  Osmond. 
"  I  shall  read  the  poets." 

He  leaned  to  her  and  they  kissed,  like  children. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes.  He  foresaw  strange  beauties 
he  had  never  dreamed  of.  There  would  be  the  sweet, 
slumbrous  valleys  and  the  sharp  lightnings  of  fierce  love, 
but  there  would  be  also  the  homely  intimacies,  the  fool 
ishness  of  children  who,  hand  in  hand,  can  smile  at 
everything. 

"Do  you  suppose  you  could  tell  what  I  am  think 
ing?"  he  wondered. 

406 


ROSE   MACLEOD 

The  air  of  the  playhouse  seemed  to  be  about  her,  and 
she  knew. 

"You  are  playing  we  are  on  a  ship,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  we  two  alone — " 

"We're  just  starting  on  the  great  adventure — " 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S   .  A 


": 


DIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA    LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


G    1 


SEP  30 1925 
23 


MAR 


30m-6,'14 


/ 


228607 


